


Unavailable

by RavishinginRed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Molly, BAMF Molly, Baby Watson, Blow Jobs, Break up sex, Communication Failure, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Smut, Hate Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Shower Sex, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavishinginRed/pseuds/RavishinginRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His scowl settled into a triumphant smile. "Despite all of my moral failings, my abuse, at one time you would do anything for me, sacrifice anything. For love," Sherlock scoffed. </p><p>"Love? No. An attraction, a crush, infatuation … lust – but never love. I never loathed myself enough to ever think I was in love with you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unnecessary

Takes place in the beginning of January, three days after Moriarty's return. 

* * *

 

Despite a grueling twelve-hour shift, Molly beamed as she pushed the door of her flat behind her. She shrugged her coat, slipped off her shoes, and unwound her scarf before crouching to meet the greeting of her cat, Toby. She pressed a light kiss to his face and ruffled behind his ears before rising and stepping into the austere kitchen. The tabby needed no persuasion to follow.

Molly acknowledged Toby's demanding meows with a smile as she quickly prepared his dinner and bestowed it upon him. "My lord," she grinned.

A quick glance around the dingy flat confirmed that her flatmate was still on Christmas holiday, still immaculate as was Molly's preference.

Her sudden break-up with Tom the past autumn had necessitated a hasty search for new living quarters; hence a barely tolerable living arrangement with a messy, gregarious 20-year-old photography student, the daughter of a family friend. Though Molly had lived with others with whom she had been more incompatible, she was relieved to be moving out within a week. To a detached house at that. The idea of home ownership was daunting, but Molly was anxious to leave overpriced, tatty rentals behind. And flatmates 15 years her junior.

Having already eaten dinner at work, Molly went about the next stage of her nightly routine; a bath followed by an hour of telly and then bed.

Molly leaned over to crumble a jasmine bubble bar under the running water. The sole redeeming quality of the flat was the cast-iron clawfoot bathtub. Far too large for the bathroom, it was clearly original to the building before being turned into multiple two bed-flats. Probably would require a wall to be knocked out if it was ever to be replaced.

After going the mirror to scrub her face of make-up and pulling her ponytail into a sloppy bun, Molly padded to her bedroom to pull a spaghetti strap top and pyjama bottoms. Shutting the bathroom door behind her, she stepped over to the tub and tested the water. She pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She slid into the bathtub with a contented sigh.

Five moves in as many years. From her father's terraced house to her own single-bed flat. Tom's. This forgettable temporary living arrangement. And now her first home at 35.

Five of her friends were coming to help her next week. Hopefully they could do so before her flatmate returned to London. Packing and moving boxes with her underfoot would be—.

Molly was startled out of her thoughts when she heard the exterior door and immediate foot falls toward the bathroom.

Well, so much for that.

The bathroom door was being pushed open. "I'm having a bath. I'll be out in—."

Molly felt pure panic as an unmistakable, _male_ baritone announced, "The deadbolt is only as strong as the strike plate is secure; the screws are too short."

Molly couldn't have been more startled – or horrified – to see Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway. She made the most undignified squawk as she shrank into the water, under the bubbles, crossing her arms over her chest.

The detective posed in the doorway, his eyes bored but his mouth pressed into a thin line. One glance and she could tell he was half-way worked up to one of his tantrums. Despite having just arrived, his coat was agape, gloves missing, and his scarf unwound, revealing his typical slim-fit suit and absurdly tight black shirt. He looked ridiculously out of place next to the dilapidated pink walls and shabby fixtures with his high street ensemble and dark, good looks.

"Get out!" Molly finally regained her ability to form words, shrill as they were.

He ignored her, turning to the switch at the entryway, twisting a group of exposed wires in his fingertips. He made an inane observation about the hazards of the vintage aluminum wiring but she didn't hear him.

What was he doing here? He had turned up at her old flat once, years ago. He had commandeered her bedroom without asking – or an explanation. Likely he had been avoiding John because some of mad psychological experiment he had subjected him to without consent. Or possibly Lestrade for reasons Molly hadn't wanted to guess. If it was the same deal, he would just have at it without bothering her. Something must be really wrong.

"Sherlock, we can do this in the kitchen. Give me a moment." Her voice was a nervous squeak.

She had last seen him almost a month ago, a few weeks before Christmas. Their working relationship had considerably cooled after his disastrous relapse.

Previously, Sherlock had been kinder, respectful, and even friendly since his return to London. His two years of exile had irreparably changed him. Though narcissistic and conceited as ever, he had developed a deeper appreciation for the additional people in his life, sought connections in his own way – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Anderson. Even her.

Then a relapse into heroin. Striking him had been a moment of weakness, but she had been so disgusted and heartbroken. After all she and John and others had done for him, had put up with. Thinking of all the bodies that passed through the morgue because of overdoses, friends and colleagues she had lost to addiction, she had hated him at that moment.

Of course, he had turned it around on her by getting shot that very night. She had visited him one time, immediately afterwards, while he was still unconscious. It had been unnerving to see him like that – weak, quiet, and so, so still. Not so invincible. Surprisingly, from what gossip she'd heard, Sherlock hadn't shown interest in pursuing his shooter.

Her disappointment and anger had returned when she had learned that he had manipulated that bridesmaid into a relationship – and an engagement – for a break in a case. She had always resented how he used his attractiveness to shamelessly manipulate her with flirtation and seductive smiles. And how it worked. Every. Single. Time.

She had only seen him a handful of times since. Their interactions had been professional and to-the-point. No tricks or flattery, but no warmth or playfulness either. Sherlock had always been impulsive, devious, and manic but now he was downright reckless and self-destructive. Molly had welcomed the distance out of self-preservation, wary of watching the inevitable crash and burn.

"Antonia Cooper," Sherlock's voice suddenly boomed. He examined a crack in the ceramic basin with his finger, his back to her. "The pathology report by the new specialist registrar is perfunctory and erroneous at best. Incompetent. Terminate him."

Perplexed, she started, "I – I've not finished reviewing that report, but—." Christ, now she was stammering. She hadn't done that in years!

"He listed the cause of death as a personal weapon; hands, fists, feet, etcetera when in actuality it was blunt force trauma – a Christmas ornament, in fact." He was becoming more agitated by the minute.

Before Molly could question him, he launched into his deduction at breakneck speed.

"He assumed she was beat to death during a sexual assault but he ignored the salt on her clothes. The attack occurred outside on her stoop. The killer panicked, dragged her inside, and staged the rape to throw off police – therefore a woman. A woman she knew well enough to talk to, not enough to invite in. Neighbour then. The victim was an alcoholic who constantly called the police over minor or feigned noise disturbances. The killer, a sleep-deprived single mother with children that received an assortment of obnoxiously loud toys. The weapon, a Christmas ornament the mother had pocketed to keep out of reach of her child. Obvious. "

Now Molly felt annoyance. Suspicion bloomed in her mind. "Any reason we couldn't do this at work or—."

"All of England, possibly the world, is under threat, by your _ex-boyfriend_ , no less, " Sherlock ranted dramatically. "Any piece of data tied to the criminal underbelly of London could be significant. I cannot afford time to sift through irrelevant, incomplete reports by half-wits unable to distinguish between silica and saliva!"

Molly clenched her jaw. Apparently this had to take place right now. "Stop right there. Brian's work is meticulous and—."

"By all means, perhaps we should put _Brian_ on the case. Yes, we can all sleep soundly now. He can handle Moriarty if he decides he wants a reconciliation with you."

"He doesn't know of my involvement," Molly snapped. "If he was a threat to me, you would have contacted me days ago." Git!

Sherlock couldn't argue that. A long silence stretched between them. And yet he wasn't leaving.

This wasn't right. He wasn't working a case. He wasn't concerned about Moriarty. He would have texted or directly told her. He would wait for her in the kitchen. Though Sherlock had little regard for others' decency or privacy, the implied intimacy of the situation would unnerve him. He went out of his way to avoid awkward situations such as this. Familiarity was the only thing she had success in teasing Sherlock about. He was deliberately trying to keep her off balance.

She knew that even if she could see his face, it would give nothing away.

Molly reached the end of her tether as the detective gauged the broken hinge of the vanity unit.

She sat higher in the bathtub, prepared for battle. Her words were sharp. "Oh for pity's sake, are we back to this now?"

"Back to what?"

"Where you try to embarrass and intimidate me for some ulterior motive? I'm not interested in playing a guessing game as to what could possibly be going on in that head of yours."

She savagely chucked a bar of soap at him. Naturally, he evaded it with a graceful side-step and continued his perusal of the bathroom, not looking at her.

Distractions. Deflections. Resorting to personal attacks. Nothing short of a passive-aggressive confrontation.

Oh!

"Of course you would make this all about you," Molly said, her tone incredulous, biting. "Sorry to inconvenience _you_."

Sherlock finally turned to look at her, a belittling smirk on his lips. "You should know that the statistical likelihood of failure is..." No. She was not going to let him ruin this for her!

"Just stop." Molly scolded him like a child, in a tone she knew would infuriate him. "Nothing is going to change. Your access to the mortuary and the labs will continue unhindered."

Sherlock saw no point in continuing the charade. "At what point were you going to inform us that you had resigned from Bart's with the intention to move to—"

Molly cut him off, enraged that he would try to back her into a corner. "Probably during _your_ goodbye."

He winced, a flash of contrition crossed his features, before he schooled his expression into a scowl. He knew then that she had put two and two together, of course.

The murder of the business tycoon, Charles Magnussen, was all over the papers. Last week, John had divulged that Sherlock was being sent away indefinitely. Though John refused to tell her, clearly Sherlock had unjustifiably caused Magnussen's death – according to the British government. Cold-blooded murder. John had been distressed, apparently not expecting to see Sherlock again.

Evidently, he had received a reprieve. No doubt a result of that disturbing message from Moriarty not three days ago.

His expression hardened. "You should not take my lack of a farewell as a comment on my regard or appreciation—."

"No, not at all. Common courtesy and social niceties are rather tedious," she mocked as he broke eye contact and twirled on his heel, pacing the small area.

"Dallying on platitudes and sentimental goodbyes wouldn't get me any closer to cracking a case. Anyone that has met me knows any offenses committed along the way are purely incidental."

 _Incidental?_   So this was her fault? For caring?

"Is that how you do it then? Justify and internalize the pain you cause your friends? Just casualties of war? Collateral damage?" A nasty thing to say, but not undeserved. She knew he was remorseful for what he had put John and Mrs. Hudson through.

Sherlock froze, his pale, steely eyes locked onto hers. He looked ready to boil over, unable to deny it. Her barb had hit its mark. Molly inhaled, knowing his next attack would be brutal.

"So how is it that you rationalized your part in my deception that caused suffering to our mutual friends. A manifestation of Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps?"

"Sorry?" Molly bit out, flushing with rage. How dare he choose now to acknowledge...

His scowl settled into a triumphant smile. "Despite all of my moral failings, my abuse, at one time you would do anything for me, sacrifice anything," he scoffed. "For love."

"No," Molly replied, much calmer than she felt.

"No?"

"God, no."

Molly sat forward, hunched, with her arms crossed over her knees, suddenly smug. "Love? No. An attraction, a crush, infatuation … lust – but never love." Remembering every rejection, every resentment, every cruelty, the words poured out of her. "I never loathed myself enough to ever think I was in love with you."

Sherlock's smirk dissolved into an icy glare as she continued. "Five years ago, I fancied you as a brilliant, elegant hero willing to do whatever it took to solve the crime and get the bad guy. You were charismatic, ambitious, and utterly unavailable. But then, as was I – you knew and threw it in my face at every opportunity." She felt exhilarated, finally telling him off.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock sneered. "The woman's inbred attraction to 'bad boys' and 'emotionally distant' men. Though in your case, not born of a need to compete with other women, compensate for low self-esteem, or the need to distinguish yourself with the conquest of an untethered man – but a fixation on an unattainable man for fear of being hurt after the loss of your father."

Unfazed, Molly nodded with a wry smile and allowed herself to fall back against the tub, flinging her arms over the side of the tub, now unconcerned that the peaks of her breasts were exposed to him. Sherlock's strategies and manipulations could only be employed to unmask lies and mysteries, but proved worthless in the face of absolute honesty and sincerity.

"And now I have no use for you."

He stayed silent but Molly could see that his brief bewilderment had shifted into cold fury as he stalked toward her. She held her ground as she continued with false sympathy. "I was wrong to objectify you, to use you as a mental obstacle, to deny your humanity – of which you so desperately try to convince us you lack." She chuckled, hollow and sarcastic. "Sorry."

Molly tried to stifle her flash of arousal as Sherlock loomed over her – dark and demonic, his eyes ablaze. She'd had the quintessential dreams of being suddenly naked in social situations or work obligations, running away humiliated and rejected. Odd, that she feel none of that now. She couldn't stop herself from scrutinizing his fully-clad form, his immaculate designer clothes that cloaked his body like armour. His acrimony rolled off him in waves, but she didn't feel any fear in provoking him. He was dangerous and callous, but she didn't feel vulnerable or shamed despite his attempt to crowd and embarrass her. His turn to be stripped naked and torn to shreds.

The sudden brush of Sherlock's thumb and forefinger on her jaw drew a startled gasp, her eyes flying to his again. He looked absolutely predatory. Molly couldn't stop herself from shivering when she felt his other hand cradling the back of her head. He kneeled, his breath caressing her face.

Oh, God. Apart from a few apologetic, but genuinely chaste kisses on her cheek, Sherlock had never touched her before. He had given up affected romantic interest and flirtations after she had helped him fake his death. Prior to their falling out over his relapse, there had been fleeting moments of appreciation and respect, but not attraction or affection. Had she wounded his massive ego? Was he trying to sooth his arrogant self by proving himself irresistible to her? Evil bastard.

"So now that I am no longer a merely figure of your imagination nor a romantic archetype, pray tell me, what am I truly, Molly Hooper?"

Knowing he would see any shard of deceit or evasion, she carried on, not trying to hide her attraction.

"Brilliant, of course." Her eyes fluttered shut. "Gorgeous."

Sherlock's fingers gently sank into her messy bun, his fingers tracing the hollow of her throat. Molly fought to keep the tremble that she felt all over her body out of her voice with her next words.

"Vain." A pause. "Deceitful."

Though her eyes were shut, she could see his smile as he pulled her hair tighter and back. She couldn't turn her head. His entire hand had settled at the base of her throat. Though his touch was light, she could feel his strength, the potential violence. He'd never hurt her – not physically. She wanted to push against his hand, to feel more pressure. Oh...

The brush of his lips against hers, light and teasing, caught her unawares. A desperate spike of lust swept through her, but she pressed on with a shaky whisper.

"Cruel."

His lips firmly on hers now. Warm. Soft. For all his coldness, he wasn't ice after all.

"Junkie."

Sherlock's kiss became more inviting, more insistent. Molly held the sides of the tub in a tight grip as she fought the urge to reciprocate.

"Fragile." The word was muffled, but she was sure he understood it.

Molly finally allowed herself to respond, opening to him. Her core blazed as she tentatively touched her tongue to his. The water was cool but her body felt fevered. She heard his low satisfied groan, an acknowledgment of her surrender. Before he could withdraw, she delivered a sharp nip to his lower lip. Molly glowered at him, delivering her last insight with all the venom she could muster.

"Lonely."

Sherlock's azure eyes popped open, instantly livid. His victorious smirk warped into a snarl as he pulled her hair with a slight, but deliberate jerk. His hand flattened and slid down her sternum as if he didn't trust himself to remain at her neck. His mouth slanted over hers in a brutal, frenzied kiss. Molly moaned loudly as he forced his tongue into her mouth, aggressive and hungry. She bucked into his hands and she clashed against his lips greedily, her blood rushing with dark desire.

She was a heartbeat away from pulling his hand to her breasts, to her center. Or pulling herself up to kneel in front of him. How would he react if she undid him, pulled down his trousers, and drew him into her mouth? Or if she leaped out of the tub to straddle him on the floor?

Then reality hit. He would shove her away. He would chastise her for giving in to his sick mind game. Even if he actually followed through with a hate-fuck on the floor, she would live to regret it. This wasn't real. He didn't even like her. He felt obligated to her because she had helped him at one time, but he certainly wasn't attracted to her. He was posh and larger-than-life; everything that Molly was not.

She flinched and pulled herself from the brink of being lost. This had to end. Time to shut him down. He didn't really want her.

Molly pushed her shaky hand backwards to connect with his thigh, her opposite hand gripping his. Her hand glided to his groin and tentatively stroked his – surprisingly erect – bulge. He hardly had time to hiss before she jerked her hand away and pulled out of his kiss, panting. She twisted her hair out of his hand, looking away before turned back to him.

Molly gave her most vicious smile. "Don't start something you can't finish, Sherlock Holmes."

He eyes narrowed to slits, shooting daggers at her. Molly didn't break eye contact as she felt him withdraw his hands and rise. He made a theatrical twirl and stomped out of the room, pulling the door shut with a slam.


	2. Unreachable

Molly buried her face in her hands the moment the door crashed shut. She released a nervous giggle, willing her heart rate to slow. She felt lightheaded.

She must have gone completely off her trolley to taunt him so.

Almost immediately her alarm resurfaced. She jerked her head up and hurdled out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around her body protectively. She flew to lock the knob and leaned against the door, bracing her forehead against her hand.

Molly shut her eyes, inhaling deeply. She couldn't hear anything. Did he leave? No, she could hear him rustling in the kitchen. Now what?

She pulled herself away from the door and roughly dried her skin with a second towel. She grabbed her pyjamas to pull them on hurriedly so she could go out there and embark on round two. She froze.

No, no. That would be what he expected her to do - what she had always done. He would waltz in, make his demands, and she would jump to it.

Well, Sherlock could go hang!

Molly drew a deep breath, setting her clothes down. She would take her time if nothing but to spite him. She pulled out her moisturiser and began rubbing it into her skin.

All the better to take the time to regain her composure and gather her wits. She still felt brassed off. And anxious. And horny.

Blast him! She really was over any romantic interest in Sherlock. Really! He was just a friend. Sort of. He was just fit. Very, very fit.

At last her skin was dry. She pulled on a blue tank top and long dark grey bottoms. She grimaced, wishing for a bra.

She reached for the door knob, rushing to exit the bathroom. Molly shook her head as she paused – old habits die hard. He could stew a bit longer.

She took a calming breath and went back to the mirror to pull down her bun and brushed out her long, brown hair. She allowed her hair to fall over her chest, making her breasts feel more shielded; though a poor substitute for a bra.

Molly examined her face in the mirror, quickly squashing the mad urge to put make-up on. She wouldn't doll herself up for him.

She couldn't resist touching her lips, feeling the echo of his kisses. She had wanted him for so long... For all of her fantasies, he kissed nothing like she expected. She'd expected more hesitation, more awkwardness. Aloofness?

Maybe his ex-fiancée showed him a thing or two. That bitter thought broke over her like ice water.

Madness. His touches had been a manipulation. He aspired to be a sociopath for God's sake! He had always flaunted his distain for her affections. He despised sentimentality. Viewed it as a weakness.

Kissing her had been an attempt to humiliate her in retaliation. Retaliation for what? For leaving Barts? For moving on with her life? For not acting the besotted schoolgirl anymore?

Molly shook her head in disgust before congratulating herself on keeping up with him and beating him at his own game. She'd be mortified later, she decided.

Thankfully he would never have the nerve to bring up that display again.

Time for round two.

Molly found Sherlock sulking in the second entryway of the kitchen. Her iPad was in his hands. Breaking it or hacking it probably. Did the man ever sit still, not fiddling with something?

His coat and scarf had been tossed over a barstool. He was prepared to stay. Just lovely.

She decided to ignore him, proceeding past him to put the kettle on boil.

"You have never had hate-sex before," Sherlock announced, setting her device down.

Molly rolled her eyes as she pulled a mug from the cupboard. "Nope. It figures that the closest I would get is a couple of kisses from you."

Sherlock threw his head back with a snort. Molly looked at him then. Leave it to Sherlock to be the only man capable of demonstrating what she could only describe as a simper. Damn if he didn't look _delighted_.

"Of course, there was the break-up sex," he shot back at her. "Two, no three encounters after your engagement was called off; he called it off. No new partners."

"Our relationship failed. We parted amicably and are still in contact." She couldn't keep the shrill laughter out of her voice. "Not everyone's failures end up in mutual faked suicides, tabloid scandals, or murder!"

The blood drained from Sherlock's face, his teeth clenched. "What do you know of it?"

"Enough. You lost so you murdered him, didn't you? Good thing you have another mess to clean up."

"Yes, those who cheer a coronation are the same as that line up to view an execution. People like a show," Sherlock stated tersely.

Molly whirled on him, completely enraged now. "You imply that I'm a whore for indulging in sex with an ex, but you are so much worse. No one likes you, no one trusts you – they just keep you around because you are useful. I guess we are both whores then – under the illusion that our self-destructive behavior is of our own choosing."

Sherlock seized her shoulders to shake her lightly, snarling. "A few sentimental acts of copulation outside a relationship hardly make you a whore, Molly. You have had fewer than six partners and were fond of all of them."

"Of course! A couple of kisses and you think you know everything about my sexual history and preferences," she spat as she turned away from him to the counter, turning the kettle off.

"Certainly," he drawled, as he stepped behind her, careful not to touch her back with his chest. Molly held her ground, not letting him intimidate her. "People look at your attire and assume you are shy or that you hide your body under oversized, dreary clothes – but in reality, you are pragmatic to a fault. You see no logic in destroying posh clothes with chemicals, bodily fluids, and formaldehyde."

Sherlock reached around her to capture her hands in his, massaging her palms as he continued his deduction. "You are simultaneously amused and horrified by the minor injuries and inconveniences that you witness of other technicians wearing clothing unsuitable for work. Your priorities are comfort and maneuverability, not attention-seeking."

Molly pulled her hands away to brace them against the counter. She shut her eyes as his hands moved up her arms to her shoulders, gently pulling her hair off of her neck as he talked.

"Your body issues are minimal as you have never bought a women's magazine and reject most media that fosters unrealistic expectations and imagery. As a doctor, you come into contact with every physiological type – you know the varieties in which healthy female bodies appear and that yours is perfect."

Molly scoffed, shying away from him. "Not perf – !" Her disparagement was cut off with a gasp when Sherlock traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. He steadied her with his hands, pulling her into his chest.

Molly could not believe she was swooning in her kitchen in the midst of a row with Sherlock Holmes! She was about to throw him out when his next words sent a jolt of arousal through her.

"Your sex life is almost exclusively vanilla, though you are intrigued by the dominant/submissive dynamic. Minor experimentation with verbal foreplay, light spanking, and a single experience with handcuffs." His voice dropped to a rumble in her ear. "No man has ever properly dominated you in bed."

What the _hell_ was going on here? Molly pushed her excitement down for a moment, digging her nails into his wrists, fighting not sway in his arms. She could barely speak as he pressed devastating kisses to her jugular.

"This is ridiculous – the stupidest mind game – … You don't like me. You're not attracted to me. Wha – What are you _doing?!_ "

"What is it that you don't understand, Molly?" His voice was impossibly deep. She gasped when he ground his hips into her backside, his desire unmistakable. "I intend to sink myself into your delectable, little body. And do not worry, I fully intend to finish what _we_ have started."

Well, now. "I'm _not_ an experiment, Sherlock." Her voice was fierce.

"No, never," was his smug reply. He released her, stepping back slightly so that he wasn't touching her. He was testing her. So this was the game. The challenge to prove he wasn't afraid of intimacy and that she didn't fear the lack of intimacy – the first one to walk away, the loser.

Insanity, this was absolutely mad. Of course, this was the hottest thing that had _ever_ happened to her. Why was she fighting this again? She wanted him, but hell if she was going to ask him to shag her.

Inhaling deeply, she let herself settle against him, reaching back to stroke his thigh. He curled around her immediately, eager to continue the game, his hands sweeping from her hips to her belly. Sherlock went back to kissing the base of her neck and shoulder.

"You enjoy well-versed dirty talk with a very sporadic use of profanity."

"Thank god for that," she said with exasperation and an eye roll, "because you _never_ stop talking."

His response was a not-so-playful bite on her shoulder. Molly arched into him, squeezing his leg, as he pulled the hem of her pyjama top up her stomach while his other hand danced on her skin.

"Your abdomen is too ticklish for kisses and teasing touches. A firm, wider touch is more appropriate."

Her top was pushed up higher, over her breasts. He hooked his chin over her shoulder as he gently kneaded her breasts. Arousal pooled in Molly's core. His lean, musician's hands touched her expertly, so enormous against her tiny breasts.

"You hate marks on your neck," Sherlock murmured as he fondled her more firmly, "but have an affinity for receiving and wearing love bites on your breasts."

Molly squeaked and tossed her head as Sherlock finally caressed her nipples with his thumbs.

"Would you like to feel my teeth on your lovely nipples, Molly?"

She turned her face away from him, refusing to give him an affirmation. Undaunted, Sherlock chuckled and spent long minutes sensually pulling and tweaking both of her nipples. She trembled violently, rocking back against him, twisting the fabric of his trousers with her fingers.

"You are needlessly self-conscious of your breasts. They are quite lovely and pert."

Molly sucked in a quick breath, instantly incensed, remembering his rudeness years ago. She lashed out at him, intending to put her elbow his kidney, but he caught her wrist easily with a hollow laugh.

He pulled her closer and whirled them around so that his backside was tilted against the counter, his long legs jutting out, forcing Molly's body to a submissive slant against him, as she had nothing to brace herself with.

His right hand gave her breast one last squeeze before trailing down her ribs, then her belly, to finally graze the elastic band of her pyjama bottoms. Molly was panting as Sherlock slid his hand inside to gently pet her curls. He used to his foot to shove her stance wider; to spread her out for him.

In a burst of defiance, she reached back to firmly cup his erection, earning a growl from Sherlock. His breathing was harsh against her ear as he slowly teased her folds, trying different strokes.

She lurched into him with a cry as he pressed his middle finger into her slowly.

Molly's head lulled against his shoulder and she placed her free hand over her mouth to stay quiet. Sherlock quickly snatched her wrist, pinning it against her chest.

"None of that," he admonished. "Hmm. You prefer an indirect contact with your clitoris." His thumb changed direction. "Counter-clockwise, circles."

Her body surged when he added a second finger, twisting and curling his fingers. She struggled against him, desperate for release.

He groaned, strained. "I wonder, how tightly will your lovely cunt clench around my cock if I pin you down?"

Oh, God. Molly couldn't do this another moment. She was pinned to Sherlock's chest with one arm, with her top rucked up to her armpits, him still wearing his full designer suit, being fingered into oblivion. And he had just uttered the word "cunt." _Cunt_.

She tilted her face to look at him. His eyes were shut, his brow pulled tight, his teeth clenched. She was not going to beg him, not going to say his name. Wasn't!

She stood on her toes and bit his jaw – his freaking perfect, sexy jawline – _hard_. No more teasing.

The sound he made was nothing less than a savage holler, his hold lessened enough for Molly to twist in his arms.

"You bring about the absolute worst in me," she groaned. Her hands flew to his face and she crashed her lips to his in a heated, sloppy kiss. His response was enthusiastic, consuming.

Molly mewled in his mouth as Sherlock lifted her bodily and slammed her back against the wall, his erection rutting intimately against her. She gave a startled shriek when he bent his head to suck her breast through her pyjama top, her hands sliding into his curls, pulling sharply. She threw her head back, feeling as his tongue laved her nipple, his entire mouth working greedily on her breast. Sherlock groaned as he popped off her breast to press shattering kisses along her jaw.

He turned and set her in the center of the kitchen table, his mouth still at her throat. Molly shuffled, trying to evade Sherlock's attention, getting two buttons undone before he pushed her to her backwards on the table, rucking her pyjama top over her breasts, too hasty to take the time to pull it off.

He pulled himself up to loom over her. Molly squealed and thrashed under Sherlock as he sucked and bit marks into her breasts – four in all – before pulling a nipple through his teeth. She moaned uncontrollably, scratching and tearing at his shirt.

He raised his head, his hair in disarray, his lips swollen and wet. His wild eyes bored into hers as he gripped to top of her pyjamas and knickers, the question in his eyes – _Permit me?_

She bit his lip in assent. His smile was wicked as he dropped his feet on the floor, pulling her to the edge of the table.

She took to opportunity to finish opening to buttons of his shirt. She leaned forward to jerk the back of his shirt out of his trousers and had gotten the top button undone when he pushed her back on her hands.

His eyes were dark and wolfish as he pulled her pyjamas and knickers under her bottom. She lifted so he could peel them off of her. She fell back on her elbows and his hands soothed down her legs.

"Open for me, Molly."

She swung her right leg over his shoulder and he stepped in between her knees, placing her heels at the edge of the table. His fingers worked their way from her ankles to the inside of her calves, her inner thighs.

Molly frantic with need. She pushed herself up and attacked his zip. She dropped his trousers and pants at once and reached to take him in her hand. Gorgeous, of course – long but not so lean like the rest of him. His blue-green eyes turned glassy as she stroked him, grazing her thumb over the head. She intended to slide off, to torment him with her mouth, but Sherlock caught her with a knowing smirk.

He pushed her back with one hand, twirling a condom in the other. He quickly ripped open the packet and rolled the condom on his length.

Molly squeaked as he pulled her bum to meet his hips, her legs straightening against his torso. He dragged his cock over her folds, refusing to enter her.

This was it, Molly thought as she squeezed her eyes shut. He was ending the game. He would push off with a sneer and leave her foolish and wanting.

His look was intense as he leaned over her, pulling her chin to look at him, holding precariously to his last shred of control.

"I must know that you are sure. Tell me."

Molly beat his chest with her fists. "Yes, damn you—." Her words cut off into a strangled scream as he abruptly pushed into her in a single, smooth movement. Filling her. Her fists opened to clasp his shirt as his lips met hers in a brief, teasing kiss. He gave her no time to adjust as he slowly withdrew and slammed home. The slight burn from his precipitous entry was _delicious_.

He dragged her body against his hips as he stood tall and started driving into her with slow, rough thrusts. The table repeatedly slammed into the wall from the force of his movements. Molly keened and bucked into him, her hands scrambling, unable get any leverage. She pulled her knees up trying to get the right angle. This wouldn't last long.

She found ecstasy as Sherlock hooked her calves over his shoulders and lifted her hips, his enormous hands holding her to meet the impalement of his cock. Molly convulsed each time his cock dragged against her sweet spot, crying out unabashedly.

Molly gasped, her whole body stiff and aching. "I can't – Oh, I just—."

"Yes, Molly!" he gritted out. "Trust me."

She saw him – his bright eyes boring into hers, sweat on his brow, mouth dropped open, every muscle in his body pulled tight – her name an arduous rasp on his lips. She threw her head back, unable to look at him.

"Sherlock! Oh! Oh, God! Sherlock!"

Her orgasm rolled through her, an unexpected crash signaled with an anguished cry. Sherlock rocked her through it, bellowing as she tightened around him. He crushed her to his chest as his thrusts became erratic; Molly clinging to his jacket, sobbing her pleasure into his shoulder. He came with a shout, eyes clenched shut.

She collapsed in his arms, her muscles relaxing, tears brimming her lashes. She gasped for breath, waiting. Waited for him to turn back to impassive stone. To stiffen and pull away from her. To reject her.

Time to run for it?

She had to be the first one to leave. She shifted to move away, but he tightened his arms around her, massaging her back.

"Aren't you going to bolt now?" Her voice was a weak laugh.

He pulled away from her, withdrawing from her body. Molly inhaled and mustered up the courage to look at him, not understanding what she saw.

He looked...raw. His eyes were still heated, but not with anger. She didn't see regret or disgust either. His mouth opened to say something, but stopped when her saw her flinch, a movement that would have been unperceivable to anyone but him. He frowned.

He stepped back to pull up his trousers, getting them out of the way. Molly pulled her top down and snapped her legs shut.

Molly brought her hand to her mouth in a startled gasp, hearing a series of loud knocks. The neighbours! They were banging on the wall, letting her know that they had heard – to be quiet. She and Sherlock had been ridiculously loud. Porn star loud. Good God.

God, what a bizarre sight. Sherlock, almost always dapper and unflappable, looked positively awkward. Now his face was flushed, his clothes askew and disheveled. _Mortal._

And she was sitting on her kitchen table. Bare-arsed. She'd had hate sex. With Sherlock Holmes. On her kitchen table. She didn't remember what she was angry about. Of course, she would be rubbish at hate sex.

The absurdity of the situation got to Molly as her deep breaths morphed into giggles. She shook her head, flinging out her hands palms-up before folding over herself in peals of laughter.

Sherlock tilted his head, affronted, before breaking into a grin of his own. He moved to her, still sitting on the table, concerned she would fall off. He lightly embraced her, ducking his head, and sighing in her hair.

Molly's laughter abated and she sat up; sliding her hand up his torso. Bracing herself. She raised her head toward him, intending a chaste kiss on his cheek. Sherlock miscalculated, turning into her, his lips meeting hers.

There was nothing innocent about his kiss as he ravaged her mouth, wanting to devour her. Her body exploded in passion, in need. Their ardor temporarily sated, but not satisfied by their brief, aggressive encounter.

"Again?," Sherlock breathed.

"Yes, oh, yes," Molly enthusiastically nodded against his face.

Molly yelped in surprise, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips as Sherlock protectively pulled her against him, carrying her to her bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks everyone for the wonderful responses to my first fanfic. I'm pleased that so many people like it. A big thanks to my Beta, Scathac, for proof-reading, Brit-picking, helping me stay on track, and not dropping my ass when I sent her a draft with "Pyjamas" misspelled 20 times.


	3. Unguarded

Molly hummed into Sherlock's temple while stroking the curls at the nape of his neck. She could detect his ridiculously expensive cologne. Something spicy and woody with hints of patchouli.

She sighed, trying to pull herself back to reality. Her over-sensitised skin could feel _everything_. She was wrapped around him; his strong hands hoisting her up. He nuzzled her shoulder while she traced the smooth seams of his jacket. The fine wool felt delicious against her bare thighs.

Molly's haze of arousal cleared a bit as Sherlock ducked under the doorway of the bedroom. A stab of guilt hit her. God, she had said awful, unfair things. She felt embarrassed for losing her temper so completely. It wasn't in her to stay angry with him. She didn't want to hurt Sherlock with insults and indifference. She desperately wanted to shower him with tenderness.

Always.

Would he accept affection from her now? Suddenly nervous, she clung to him, not want the illusion to end. He gently kneeled to deposit her on her bed. The room was dark, lit only by the outside lights.

Molly pulled back to look at him, her hands still buried in his hair. His face had hardened again, his lips pursed and his eyes stormy. She took a deep breath, determined not to tear up.

"I'm sorry, I truly didn't mean—."

He cut her off with a heated kiss. Molly responded eagerly, twisting her tongue to his.

"Unnecessary. I'm an _insufferable_ bastard," he muttered against her lips. "Your rage is a force to behold, Molly. Allow me to make amends."

She could only gasp an affirmation as his mouth worked over hers but quickly felt disappointment when he abruptly pulled back and stood. He flashed her a wicked smile. "I won't be a moment." He turned to exit the bedroom and proceed to the loo to dispose of the condom and clean up.

The second he left the room, Molly inhaled what she guessed was her first full breath in twenty minutes. Her mind raced. She was half-naked in her bed. Waiting for him to return for a _second_ go. How had this happened again?

God, should she put on some lingerie? Or wait naked under the covers?

She cursed herself for not putting on a scrap of make-up. Or styling her hair. Or at the very least have fresh polish on her toes.

Bugger!

How was she to know that tonight of all nights she would have a passionate affair with Sherlock?

Passion. Certainly an understatement in regards to their encounter in the kitchen. Though the actual sex had been over in a flash, less than a minute really, she still felt as if he'd burned an imprint inside her. She'd escalated the situation and provoked him into quite a fury. He had been rough, but never out of control. He was more than capable of injuring her.

An epiphany crashed over Molly. _Consent._ She had thought he was trying to dominate her at the end, when he'd made her say it. But he'd wanted express consent. He would have stopped if she had wanted to. Always the gentleman, when it counts. Molly smiled.

Molly was still frozen in thought on her bed when he returned. His eyes swept the room and fixated on the corner of her bed. She watched as he sauntered past her to gingerly pick up her cat. Not wanting any interruptions, he crossed the room to carefully deposit Toby in the hallway and shut the door.

Molly felt a throb of desire. All hers now.

As Sherlock strolled towards her, an acute swell of anxiety hit her. Unable to push her suspicion out of her mind, Molly held out her hands in an attempt to hold him off. Her voice was shaky. A warning.

"This doesn't change anything."

Sherlock chuckled sincerely, undeterred. He pulled her hands to his chest, inviting her to touch him. "Don't be dense, Molly. I believe that ship sailed 17 months ago."

Molly released a breath she didn't know she had been holding and balanced herself on her knees, leaning into him. Relief and excitement flooded through her. Whatever this was to him, it wasn't a manipulation or scheme to get her to stay. There would be no more lies or games. They could set aside their expectations and illusions, and just enjoy each other. Just a casual fling. A fantasy. She knew it was a mistake to let this happen again, but couldn't bear ending things on such a negative note. And for all his coldness and rebuffs, at this moment, he genuinely wanted her.

Hell if this would be an encounter he _dared_ to delete.

All of her insecurities fled as he cupped her jaw to press a soft kiss to her lips. She matched his fervour as he became more demanding. Sherlock crushed her against him, massaging her bottom as he pressed a row of kisses from her cheek to her ear.

"You are mine tonight, Molly."

His possessive words made her flush with arousal. She responded by lightly scratching his back with her nails.

He groaned as he nipped her earlobe, shifting his hands from her arse to the hem of her top. Molly broke away to raise her arms, allowing Sherlock to peel it off of her. She felt a surge of fearlessness as he pushed her hair off her chest to appraise her body appreciatively before pulling her lips back to his. Molly trembled as Sherlock slid his hands all over her skin; rubbing, kneading, and teasing.

He broke away to slip his hand into the pocket of his jacket. He watched her face as he pulled out a strip of condoms – evidently nicked from her flatmate. She tilted her head in playful disapproval. He tossed them to the bedside table. The detective's devilish smirk spoke of promise.

He started to shuck off his shirt and jacket. Molly stopped him with her hands and a cheeky smile.

"Allow me."

She rose from the bed to stand next to him. Molly grinned recalling this scenario being a favourite fantasy of hers.

Molly was no femme fatale, but she did know how to tease a man. Her hands shook at first, as she removed his jacket and tossed it to the chair. She brought his right hand to rest on her cheek as she undid his shirt cuffs, sliding her fingers to gently caress his wrist and forearm. Sherlock's mouth dropped open when Molly turned his hand to meet the gentle nip of her teeth before returning his arm to his side. She held his gaze as she treated his other hand to the same, becoming more confident.

Clearly, he'd never had a woman undress him.

She stepped closer, dragging her nails gently up and down his back, under his shirt. Sherlock shuddered slightly as she pressed open-mouth kisses to his neck as she slowly peeled off his shirt, inching it down his arms. His eyebrow shot up when she didn't immediately pull the shirt off his wrists, content to playfully trap his arms at his sides while she nibbled on his clavicle and his shoulder.

Molly could see the tiny scar on his neck from the central line that had been put in when he was shot. Her trained eye determined that two stitches had been used to secure the IV. Sherlock tried to stifle a gasp as she massaged the delicate scar with her lips, her hold tight on his wrists that were still bunched up in his shirt. She stood on her toes to lavish attention on his neck and ears. She finally pulled his shirt off and discarded it the way of his jacket. She left his watch on his wrist, stepping back to survey his chest.

Sherlock attempted to remain stoic as Molly stroked his chest and arms, mesmerised by his statuesque form. He was even leaner than she imagined – so solid. His chest hair sparse and fine, but coarse and dark under his navel. Her hands skimmed his shoulders to his neck. He tried to pull her in for a kiss, but she dodged him, walking around to hug him from behind, deliberately pressing her breasts against his back. His groan sent shockwaves to her core. She nipped his shoulder while caressing his chest with her hands.

"Am I boring you?" she asked playfully.

"Quite the contrary. I'm enchanted. Do get on with it though." He tried to sound gruff, failing.

For a man that she had desired so long, she wanted to memorise every angle, every line, every scar. She turned her hands down, scratching lightly down his chest, careful to avoid the bullet wound. She kissed his back while pushing her fingers under the band of his trousers. Sherlock swayed slightly as Molly slowly undid his trousers, sighing loudly into his back, letting him know how much she wanted him. The detective threw his head back when she dug her hands deeper into his boxer briefs, teasing and caressing his hips and his nest of curls, but not touching his penis.

Molly withdrew her hands and shimmied his trousers and pants down to his knees, arching her breasts into him as she slid down his body. She quickly rose and manoeuvred him. The detective allowed her to push him to a sitting position on the bed.

His eyes blazed as he watched her slide to her knees between his feet. She smiled, knowing a naked woman at his feet would make him as wild as any man. Molly started at his hip, stroking his groin and down his leg. She quickly untied his boot and slid it off. After peeling off his sock, she massaged his foot, his ankle, and his calf under his trousers. It was as if she wanted to crawl into his clothes with him before removing them. She worshiped his other foot before she pulled his trousers completely off his body, whipping them aside.

Molly gave him a saucy smile as she settled deeper between his knees. She ran her fingers along his knees and thighs to reach his cock. He was semi-erect as Molly expected. She didn't know what his refractory period was, but knew it wouldn't take much longer.

Sherlock didn't push her away, so she gently traced his member with her fingers before taking him into a loose grip. He hissed, straightening his back and stretching his hands next to his thighs. There was nothing vacant about his expression as he watched Molly press kisses along the underside of his cock before becoming more ardent with licks and sucks to his glans.

Molly felt his fingers thread through her hair as she took him completely in her mouth. Sherlock _moaned_ as she savoured him, his cock hardening in her mouth. She stroked his thighs as she bobbed up and down his erection.

Molly revelled in making Sherlock come undone. She had just brought her hand to tease his bullocks when he gripped her arms and yanked her into his lap. She didn't have time to draw breath before he drew her into a savage kiss with his hand gripping her hair. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, rocking against his lap.

"You are full of surprises, Molly Hooper." The huskiness in his voice made her shiver.

"I'm ready, Sherlock." She gasped against his lips.

"No, I rather think you're not."

Sherlock's groin rolled under Molly's thighs, igniting her. She traced his face with her fingers, sucking his tongue in her mouth. They crashed their bodies into each other, their mouths fighting for dominance before Sherlock broke the kiss. He supported her neck while leaning her backwards in his lap. He ground into her while fondled her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples.

"You would let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" He glided his hand on her chest, between her breasts, "Touch you everywhere."

Inflamed by the implications of Sherlock's words, Molly nodded breathlessly while thrusting against him, trying to get some friction. She reached between them, to take him in hand when he grasped her wrist to hold it behind her back. He leaned forward to thoroughly suckle her right nipple, then the other. Molly squealed when his flicks turned to long, erotic pulls with his teeth.

He sat up, positioning her elbows and her back on his thighs so that she was arched over his lap. Molly felt positively tiny as his enormous hands squeezed her breasts and moved to span her ribcage. Her body jerked when his hands skimmed down her belly to her legs.

Sherlock took his time tease her inner thighs before moving to pet her sex. She moaned loudly as he gently tugged her curls and then her labia. He teased her entrance with his fingertip, spreading her wetness, but refused to penetrate her. Molly cried out when Sherlock found her clit and soothed it with the softest of strokes. He watched her writhe on his thighs though hooded lids.

"Do you think of me? When you touch yourself here? When you ride your fingers?"

Molly's affirmations came in broken moans. Eager to spur him into action, Molly gripped his bicep and reached her other hand to snag the condoms on the table. He pulled her up before manoeuvring backwards with her on his lap. He went to take the condoms from her but she held them out of his reach. She jabbed her thumb and index finger into his throat to get his attention, holding him there and staring into his eyes fiercely.

"I'm going to fuck you now, Sherlock" she boldly informed him.

His eyes smouldered, excited by her assertiveness and rude language. He smirked while laying on his back obediently. Molly settled on her heels over his thighs. Sherlock's smile contorted in pleasure as Molly worshiped his cock with her hands and mouth. She waited for him to moan her name to rip open the packet and roll the condom on his length. She climbed on top of him, running her hands down his body before reaching to guide him inside her. Molly's moan was deep as she sank down. He steadied her with his hands as she took him to the hilt. His eyes were wild and his breathing was harsh.

"Oh, Sherlock. So good. Oh, my God. You feel so—." She murmured and sighed as he pulsed inside her. Her eyes closed and she stroked his chest as she slowly rocked forward and back. This was her chance to savour the feeling of him inside her. Sherlock exhaled deeply watching Molly ride him, entranced by the bliss on her face, but soon grew impatient. He pulled her hips down to meet his upward thrusts. Molly's moans grew louder.

"Kiss me, Molly." Sherlock demanded.

She leaned forward to fuse her mouth with his as their pace speed up. Her clit hit his pubic bone at every pass. Molly wanted it to last, knew she should slow down, but was helplessly lost. Sherlock held her as she rode him furiously. The detective took in her moans and low cries as she lost her rhythm. He kept her pace as she shattered above him, encouraging her.

"Yes, Molly. Yes. Come on. Come for me, Molly."

Her hair fell forward, covering her face as she turned her chin down into her shoulder. Her eyes clenched shut as she felt the familiar tingle work its way up her spine. Her climax wasn't violent like before, but smooth and flowing. It was just as satisfying.

She shuddered, coming down from her orgasm. She exhaled loudly and opened her eyes. Molly was stunned by the hungry look on Sherlock's face. She braced her hands on his shoulders, shifting her body into a position to ride him to his release.

Sherlock held her hips, slowing her movements to a stop. He chucked at her confused expression.

"Oh, we are far from finished here. You still have to work up to the second one."

Molly shook her head. "Oh, I won't be able to—."

Molly didn't have the chance to make another sound as Sherlock swiftly flipped her off of him, and on to her belly. Sherlock sat back on his heels between Molly's legs, firmly rubbing her back as she got over her surprise. She turned her head to look at him and saw that predatory gleam was back in his eyes.

He shifted to pull her up to her knees on the edge of the bed and stand behind her. Sherlock groaned as he kneaded her bum. Molly spread her knees instinctively, trying to catch her breath. God, this was adventurous for a second encounter. Especially from a man whom purportedly abstained from sex.

"Good girl." Sherlock purred.

Molly was momentarily surprised when he didn't move to penetrate her, but slid to his knees on the floor. She squeaked, suddenly shy. She had never received oral sex from behind before. Sherlock held her legs in place as he nipped the inside of her thigh. She jumped.

"Easy, Molly," Sherlock soothed.

God, did he have to use her name every time he gave her an order in bed?

Sherlock eased Molly into it with light kisses up her thigh until he reached her core. She stretched her arms in front of her, resting her entire upper body on the bed with a deep sigh. The position was lewd but she was too aroused to feel shame in submitting to Sherlock's intimate caresses.

Molly gave a strangled gasp as he skimmed his hands down her bottom, spreading her cheeks, and stroking her labia open with his thumbs. She shook violently, trying to hold her position as Sherlock slowly tormented her with his fingers and tongue. Her toes curled as he spent long minutes kissing and tasting her. Molly relished the obscene sounds he made as he enthusiastically manipulated her soft flesh. Sherlock tongued her entrance briefly only to shift lower and suck hungrily on her clit.

Molly moaned loudly, crying out his name as she raced toward her climax. All of her muscles tensed in preparation for release.

Sherlock abruptly pulled away, gracefully rising to his feet and yanking Molly's back to his chest. He rocked against her as he seized her chin to meet a greedy kiss, his other hand roughly fondling her breast. She could taste herself on his lips.

His feral behaviour and the heavy weight of his cock against her bum sparked a new desperation. A primal need to be taken. Owned. Possessed.

He pulled back to stare into her eyes with his intensely blue ones. His thumb stroked her cheek. Every shred of restraint fled when he demanded, "Tell me what you want. What you need."

"You. To be yours." It was a plea against his lips.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed as he bit her lip. "I'm going to make you scream."

Sherlock hooked his arm around her belly and dragged her against him to the centre of the bed again. He held her upright on her knees, brushing soft kisses against the back of her neck, not moving to enter her. Frustrated and utterly wanton, Molly took matters into her own hands. She heard him suck in a breath as she shifted back to her elbows and pushed her hips into his groin. Still, he didn't rush as he caressed her backside. She moaned and thrashed as he pulled at her waist to grind his erection against her core, simulating their impending joining. She couldn't take his teasing and reached behind her. To him.

"Sherlock...Sherlock," she whispered.

Sherlock exhaled harshly as he took Molly's hand in his and raised her hips to meet him. Molly's scream didn't stop her from hearing his deep grunt as he slowly impaled her. Sherlock pressed his palm to the small of her back as he completely buried himself inside her, groaning her name.

"Yes! Yes! Sherlock!" she cried loudly. Her entire world shrank to the feeling of him deeply embedded in her body, holding her down. She squirmed as he covered her with his larger frame, kissing her shoulders and nuzzling her neck. His breath was coming in deep rasps.

Molly felt frenzied, desperate for him to _move_.

" _Ugh_ , you feel so good." His teeth were clenched, his body rigid with concentration. " _You. Are. Mine. Molly_." He punctuated every word with a  torturously shallow thrust.

Completely caught in Sherlock's swell of animalistic lust, she pleaded, "Yes! Yes! Make me yours, Sherlock."

His control snapped. His pulled his weight off of her to pound her with quick, heavy thrusts. Molly wailed, gripping the sheets tightly, arching her back to take everything he could give her. Sherlock snarled as he rammed into her, spurred on by Molly's incoherent cries. Her knees slid from under her and Sherlock followed her down, stretching his entire body over hers. He growled into her ear, keeping Molly's hand enfolded in his. He slid his free hand under her clit to push her over the edge.

Molly's entire body tightened, her insides twisting. She felt a flicker of fear as she teetered on the brink, a brief desire to shy away from the intensity of this release. She sobbed, feeling Sherlock surround her, holding and protecting her. She let go, knowing he would catch her.

Molly's climax ripped through her entire body, brilliant and unyielding. Sherlock's hand tightened around Molly's as she screamed her release into the duvet. He followed immediately after, groaning her name as he crushed her into the bed.

Her euphoria clung to her as she panted and stretched her limp muscles. She was barely cognizant of Sherlock rolling his weight off of her, stroking her cheek, and pulling her hair out of her eyes. Awareness finally returned when she heard him ask if she was alright. She couldn't speak, but she smiled and gave a nearly in-perceivable nod. He was soaked with sweat, his damp curls plastered to his temples. They were both filthy, sticky. He flashed her a brilliant smile before kissing her cheek and rising from the bed to go clean up.

Molly shivered as she felt her skin cool. She curled in on herself, feeling his absence acutely. That was...decidedly _not_ casual. Not for her at least. She cringed, suddenly overwhelmed with yearning for something. Kind words? Affection? Cuddles? _Oh, God_.

This was awkward. She was at a loss what to do next, what the protocol was in this sort of situation. This wasn't the beginning of a relationship, just a one-off. Of course, he would come back, get dressed, and leave. Isn't that what people did after meaningless, no-strings-attached sex? Were they supposed to say anything?

Molly pulled herself up from the bed and reached for her dressing gown. She leaned against the wall in the hallway while waiting for him to exit the loo. When he came out, she shuffled past him, forcing a smile and quick glace at his face. She shut the door behind her thinking that he had looked completely recovered. She felt utterly shattered. How would things be between them now? Could they go back to being friends? Where they even friends in his mind? _Damn!_

She decided to take her time cleaning up while he pulled himself together. He could leave without a word if he chose. Part of her hoped so. She didn't want to risk freaking out in front of him. Again.

She collapsed on the toilet, burying her face in her hands trying to stifle her urge to cry, finally acknowledging her distress. Did other people feel so hollow, so much more alone after a fling? No, the slept with people they _didn't_ care about. And she cared about Sherlock, deeply. More than she wanted to admit.

Recriminations flooded her immediately. What on earth had she been thinking engaging in a one-off with Sherlock Holmes? She had never been able to separate sex and ...love. Christ, had she really thought this would give her closure? Make it easier for her to move on?

She flushed in recollection of the things they had done together, to each other, mere moments ago. It wasn't a fantasy. It had really happened. They had been completely uninhibited. He had been so passionate, so enthusiastic about pleasing her. All those possessive words! Had it meant something to him? Did he actually care about her?

Molly pulled herself to the bathroom sink to wash up. No. She wasn't going to read anything into this. It had just...happened. He was emotional because of everything that had happened; Magnussen, nearly getting exiled, Moriarty,... John moving out of Baker street again after reconciling with his wife.

Humans have an intrinsic urge to be with others, even would-be automatons like Sherlock. He was acting on his loneliness by indulging in a suppressed, but hard-wired sexual urge.

She winced, thinking _an urge that he never would have acted upon if she hadn't been leaving_.

Molly's eyebrows pulled together, trying to remember something she had learned in psychology. Rebound effect! The more someone tries to push away an emotion or desire, the more they think about it or have an impulse to act on it. Though he was manic and impulsive to the extreme, he was the most reserved man she ever met when it came to acknowledging his more basic needs. Of course his acting on any suppressed urge would be nothing short of a bomb detonation. He was obviously more experienced than he let on. Perhaps for him, sexual release was just another high. Like the highs he got from solving puzzles and cases. From flattery and attention. From drugs.

Molly stared herself down in the mirror, chastised herself. Why was she trying to rationalise his motivations after the fact? Who understood anything that he did? Nothing constructive could come from this line of thinking.

It happened and its over.

She was _not_ going to regret this time spent with him.

She could stop being insecure.

Everything would be fine.

She turned toward the bathroom door. She had been in there at least twenty minutes but she hadn't heard him leave. He was in the kitchen. Maybe he wanted to talk to her? Make her swear to secrecy? Or ensure that she has no expectations of him? She drew a deep breath as she pulled open the door to walk to the kitchen.

She stifled her surprise when she found him, leaning against her counter in his boxer briefs with a plate in his hand, wolfing down on leftover takeaway. There was a half-empty glass of water next to him. She smiled. Of course he was hungry. They had been vigorous, to say the least. He appeared relaxed. Her heart constricted seeing that he had casually raided her fridge, like a teenager. Like he belonged there. It was adorable...and so domestic.

"The tomatoes shouldn't be kept in the fridge."

She looked at him quizzically. He jerked his head toward the counter where he had set all of her tomatoes. She couldn't stop smiling as he explained, "The excess cold causes the cell walls to burst, making them mealy. It also damages the enzymes that produce taste."

She giggled, clutching her dressing gown. This evening had been absolutely surreal with far too many highs and lows. She yawned, completely knackered. She watched him finish his plate and take a last swig of water before setting the dishes on the counter and striding back to the bedroom.

"Coming?," he called to her.

She met him at the doorway. Toby was tucked under his arm. He tilted his head for her to enter before evicting the cat a second time and shutting the door. Toby would be _very_ cranky tomorrow. Sherlock gave her a shrug, reassuring her that the cat would be fine.

Molly finally realised he intended to stay when he pulled back the duvet and got in. She pulled off her dressing gown and slid in too. She rolled onto her stomach, turning her head toward him, her arms pulled under her chest. He was on his back, watching her.

He smiled at her with narrowed eyes. "You had _no_ intention of leaving without a word. Why lie and imply you would?" Sherlock asked her. He wasn't angry, just wondering.

"I don't know. It just popped in my head." She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment and shrugged. "Because you were lying."

Sherlock nodded, accepting that answer.

Molly yawned. "I knew that you _had_ to have known for months. I guess I was waiting for you to say something. I knew you wouldn't be impressed. I expected a reaction, though not _this_ sort of reaction," she smiled. "I planned on talking to you and John after I resigned, but then Christmas happened and..." She trailed off, not wanting to bring up Magnussen.

Sherlock stiffened, becoming serious again. "Molly, you should know—."

She interrupted with a gentle wave of her hand. "No, I really don't. I know you had your reasons. That's all that matters. I trust you."

"Do you? How disappointing." He attempted a pout that just looked smug.

"God knows I shouldn't." She laughed, teasing him. "Honestly, if your ego got any bigger, you wouldn't be able to fit through the door."

He snickered before settling down. A few moments passed.

"Why are you all the way over there?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

They were on either side of the bed, not touching. He wanted to know why she wasn't trying to cuddle him? Really?

Molly blinked. "I didn't think you would...Isn't that what's done when its just..." She flailed her hand and shrugged her shoulders.

Sherlock tilted his head expectantly, not understanding.

Molly sighed, dropping her hand. "When there's no sentiment," she finished, matter-of-factly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before sliding over to her, pulling her into his arms. "Molly, for a smart woman, you can be really obtuse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I should be ashamed to have written something so graphic. But I'm not! I promise they are going to actually have a meaningful conversation at some point. This was meant as a one-shot, but has spiraled ridiculously out of control. 
> 
> A big shout out to my awesome Beta, Scathac. Her patience and Brit-picking is invaluable to me. 
> 
> Again, thank you for the responses. Please feel free to leave any feedback. I'm curious to know what you think of this chapter.


	4. Unrepentant

"He was found in his sitting room this morning. He'd been alone all night. The doors were all locked from the inside. A window was open, but it's a twenty-foot drop and the grounds underneath were undisturbed." DI Lestrade flipped through the police report of the murder scene.

"Who is he?" John asked as he inspected the corpse's right hand.

Lestrade rattled off the details of the file in his hand. "The Honourable Ronald Adair. British High Commissioner to Australia. Son of an Earl."

"A robbery?" John suggested.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing appears to have been stolen."

"Any known enemies? Rivalries?" John asked.

"None so far. He was well-respected, likeable..."

An acidic baritone broke in. "Someone liked him enough to kill him instantly with a single gunshot wound to the head. A kindness. Wasn't personal. Purely business." Sherlock crouched near the body, turning the head back and forth to inspect the wound. He didn't look at Lestrade to ask, "And the murder weapon?"

"Missing."

"Thought so." Their subsequent silence prompted Sherlock look up at both of them. Both men stood expectantly, waiting for Sherlock to fill them in.

The detective rose and pointed to the bullet hole in the victim's head. "This man was killed by a revolver bullet, but the wound is too large and too deep for the bullet to have been fired from a revolver. It had to have come from a modified rifle to make this pattern and to cross the distance through the window. "

"Where would someone get a modified weapon like that?" Lestrade shouted incredulously.

"Where indeed? A criminal network, perhaps? John, we need..."

Molly drew her attention away from the three men examining the corpse that had arrived in the morgue not forty minutes ago. Tomorrow was her last day at Bart's and she had far too many tasks to do to allow herself to be fawning over Sherlock.

It had been two days since Sherlock had visited her flat. They hadn't said anything else to each other after he pulled her close for a cuddle. She had dozed on and off all night, enjoying his attentions. Sherlock hadn't been able to get enough. Had never stopped touching her. He even instigated a third round of sex that had been slow and gentle. Molly shied away from considering it romantic. Sherlock had just been considerate that she might be sore after having been so _intense_ earlier.

Molly hadn't been surprised to wake the next morning and find Sherlock gone without a word. She wasn't offended, but was in fact relieved. There wasn't going to be confessions of love or tearful goodbyes so she was glad to be spared what could only be an awkward morning after.

With two days to process what happened, Molly still felt conflicted, but much of her inner turmoil had been reconciled. She was relieved that for Sherlock, it hadn't been merely a sexual release or worse, a brief lapse in judgment. Thinking back on their past interactions and his passion that night, she had no doubt in her mind that he did care about her in his own way. They had shared much more than their bodies. It wasn't love, but it something. Something special.

Molly had always anticipated that her crush would go no where, would remain harmless. Though she was certain Sherlock wasn't interested, she now was forced to think of the realities of him being a suitable partner. Even if her circumstances remained the same, Molly was experienced enough to know a romantic relationship would be out of the question. As strong as her attraction to him, she had always known Sherlock was _not_ boyfriend material. That's probably what made him _so_ devastatingly attractive.

Though he was gorgeous and brilliant, Sherlock had few other qualities that would make him a good partner. He was the most volatile man she had ever met. His arrogance and narcissism knew no bounds. He was fickle, had little regard for others, and was down-right childish at times. Sherlock was often thoughtlessly cruel. Any woman with half a brain that hadn't been sucked in by his beautiful face and dramatic manner would run like hell.

Still, Sherlock was much more generous and creative in bed then she ever imagined. Her skin tingled every time she thought about how good they had been together, so unrestrained. They had been glorious.

Ultimately, she was unremorseful. In fact, she was gratified to have had a few hours of honesty and vulnerability that Sherlock never shared with anyone.

Honestly, she hadn't expected to see Sherlock again. The pathologist had known the minute she saw that corpse that he would come. Even prepared for it, she felt her insides flutter when the detective sailed into the morgue with John and Greg trailing behind him. Sherlock gave nothing away as she directed them to the cadaver. She congratulated herself on remaining cool and professional. And not gawking.

Sherlock was _marvellous_ when intent on a case.

Molly reluctantly dragged herself to the corridor. She couldn't help but startle as she walked past her office, the Autopsy Surgeon's room.

Well, that was fast!

The new specialist registrar, Brian Whitecomb, had already made himself at home. She'd just finished packing up her personal belonging that morning!

It was irrational to be irked that he was already settled in an office that she had voluntarily vacated, but really?

Molly sighed. Truth be told, she was just idling time. All her duties and authorizations had already been transitioned to the new pathologist. Her last autopsy had been completed that very afternoon. She'd always kept her records meticulously up-to-date, so there wasn't much to wrap up. With only an hour left of her shift, her only responsibility was to look busy.

Tomorrow would be her exit interview and a dreadful goodbye luncheon. And an assortment of final administrative tasks including changing her voicemail and creating an automatic-response email. She'd actually wept a bit while drafting the mass email she would send tomorrow to announce her departure and identify the new contact person.

She rounded the corner to enter the clinical lab. She sat at the bench to start preparing samples for storage in the biospecimen bank.

Good God, why did this feel so bizarre? So awful? Why the guilt about leaving a job for a promotion? She was supposed to feel excited, celebratory. Instead she felt melancholy at times.

_Because_ , the pathologist told herself, she treasured the connections she made with colleagues and felt she was abandoning her family, her team. She had been at Bart's over seven years. She was leaving a comfortable, familiar environment for something bigger and unknown.

Of course there would be adjustments but she would make new friends and new colleagues. In time. Though she was much improved, building connections with new people didn't come easy to her. She was naturally introverted. She could be socially awkward. And couldn't tell a joke to save her life.

She sighed again. Too late to go back now!

Her thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, John, and Greg entering the lab. Sherlock proceeded immediately to _his_ microscope while John and Greg made a bee-line for her.

Molly set down her slides, removed her gloves, and stood to greet them. John took Molly's hands in hers and squeezed warmly. Molly forced a weak smile. There was an awkward silence.

Christ, goodbyes are terrible!

"So, when do you start?" John asked.

"In three weeks." Molly replied.

"Which hospital is it again?" Lestrade shuffled on his feet, picking up one of the files that Molly had just signed off on.

"RLUH – Royal Liverpool University." 

"The largest, busiest hospital in Merseyside and Cheshire." John boasted.

Lestrade whistled. "Fantastic. Hopefully, they are ready for you."

Molly blushed. She would indeed begin her new position as Consultant Surgeon next month. Though she was saddened to be moving four hours away to Northwest England, it was a dream to be hired on as a senior surgeon for one of the most prestigious teaching and research hospitals in the U.K.

Competition for Consultant positions in Orthopaedics was fierce with only 55 occupancies in all of the U.K. last year. Knowing she wasn't an ideal candidate with her lack of effortless social graces, she credited her extra efforts in achieving substantial publications for tipping the scale in her favour. She also had glowing recommendations. Connections with the famous Sherlock Holmes hadn't hurt either.

She would be accepting considerably more duties and liabilities by being ultimately responsible for all the patients referred to her ward. She would lead a team of Specialty Registrars and Foundation Doctors in addition to spending approximately forty percent of her time in surgery.

Molly's mind scrambled, trying to think of something to say to minimize the uncomfortable silence as Lestrade tossed her file back onto bench.

"What is the rationale for not addressing surgeons as doctors, again?" He wondered.

"Snobbery." Molly grinned.

John chortled before explaining, "Until the mid-19th century, surgeons usually served on apprentice to a surgeon as opposed to going to university to obtain a medical degree."

"Without a medical degree, surgeons couldn't use the title 'Doctor.'" Molly supplied.

John's smile was mischievous as he continued. "Surgeons were considered _craftsman_ and often doubled as barbers or other tradesmen. They were the lowest in the pecking order."

Lestrade interrupted, perplexed. "But physicians and surgeons all have medical degrees now."

"Right, but after a few hundred years of scorn and contempt between physicians and surgeons and being denied access to our exclusive club, the ultimately rejected the title 'Doctor.' Basically told us to piss off." John said.

Molly tried to explain it more diplomatically. "We stuck with the tradition even though surgery rose from the bottom of the hierarchy to the top. The title Mister and Miss ceased to be a put-down and a way of distinguishing ourselves from other doctors."

"So, inverse snobbery." Lestrade concluded.

"Yes." Molly admitted with a laugh.

"But you did go by the title 'Doctor" at one point?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, when Molly graduated medical school, she was 'Doctor Hooper'. When she passed her surgical exam for the Royal College and became Bart's _surgical_ specialist registrar, she graduated to Miss again." John clarified.

"Its not like that in other countries—." Lestrade started.

"God, no. Its pretty much exclusive to the U.K." Molly said.

John laughed again. "No one would be daft enough to follow suit."

"And foreigners think that the British have no sense of humour." Molly quipped.

"We possess a keen sense of the ridiculous." Lestrade agreed.

John turned to see Sherlock flying out of the lab.

"Selfish git!" John muttered with a sigh, embarrassed that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to say goodbye to her.

"No, no. Goodbyes aren't his thing." Molly joked.

John and Lestrade flinched, suddenly uncomfortable. Molly winced too, her jest falling flat. _Ugh, such an_   _Idiot!_

John recovered first and embraced Molly, congratulating her and offering her his best wishes. Molly hugged Lestrade, promising that she would get in touch when she visited London. Her eyes watered despite her best efforts. She gently waved as they left the lab to chase Sherlock down.

Molly sighed in relief, grateful there wasn't going to be any uncomfortable confrontations with Sherlock. Prior to the Fall, she had felt inept enough in his presence before having kissed and touched every inch of his body! The very last thing she needed was to revert back to her old, nervous mannerisms.

Would he be insulted if she told him he was less intimidating when naked? Undoubtedly.

The pathologist glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes to go.

Molly had thought she would have to be dragged out of the hospital on her last day, but now she was suddenly anxious to leave. Her place there was gone and she was already tired of the congratulations, goodbyes, and tears.

She composed herself while packing up the slides and tools. She entered the adjoining instrument room and set the tools at the bench. The room was no more than 8x10 storage space with several rows of shelving and bench that contained a utility sink. The room was a bit cluttered with boxes to the ceiling holding gowns, gloves, boots, face shields, and other numbered instruments.

Molly carefully washed the equipment she had been using and circulated around the shelves, putting them away. She had returned the slides to their place at the end of the aisle when she turned and collided into six feet of tall, dark, and cranky.

The pathologist shrieked Sherlock's name as he gripped her forearms, preventing Molly from falling to the floor. She hadn't heard anyone come in. Molly's palm flew to her chest.

Yup, still beating.

"I require 25 litres of alkane wax or an appropriate substitution." He announced in his imperious baritone. "I've confiscated approximately 21 litres. Suggestions for drumming up another four?"

Relief flowed through her. Good to see that some things never change. He was completely fixated on the case. There would be no weirdness here. She could do this.

Alkane wax? What on earth did he need that much for? Not going there.

"You took all from the autopsy and post-mortem rooms, the clinical lab, and store II?"

He nodded briskly as Molly thought frantically. The morgue would have the largest quantity as it was used to prep specimens for histology, nitrate tests, and to impregnate tissue prior to sectioning thin samples. But other departments would possibly stock it. She thought about all of its medical uses.

"Have you tried—."

"Haematology, Microbiology, Orthopaedics, and Dental." Sherlock finished dourly.

Molly paused thoughtfully. "Podiatry?" She suggested.

"Paraffin foot baths. Of course!" He shook his head, exasperated with himself.

Molly grinned. "The clinic closes in 90 minutes." She informed him.

What felt like a minute passed. Maybe two. Sherlock still held her arms, not moving to leave.

Molly noticed his appearance then. His scarf was wrapped around his neck but his gloves were off and his coat open, revealing a pale grey shirt under his suit. Her eyes widened as she took note of his aristocratic face.

Oh, God. There was a bruise on his jaw from when she had bit him during their first encounter! She hadn't broken the skin but the mark was distinct. She didn't know whether to be horrified or pleased that he was hunting down London's most dangerous criminals with a love bite on his face. A love bite that she had given him.

Stop drooling, Molly!

A furious blush tinted her cheeks as she became acutely aware of Sherlock's proximity and the heat radiating off of his body. The silence between them was suffocating. She stepped back, out of his grasp and forced herself to look him in the eyes neutrally. His expression was frosty.

"Is there anything else you need?" She asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Sherlock just stared, studying her. _Observing_ her. He was impassive, unreadable. When Sherlock finally spoke, her heart sank.

"Molly, I can't help but sense that a discussion is in order." Sherlock's tone was stern and his expression indifferent.

_Damn!_   She had misread him. Was he going to besiege her with recriminations?

"We don't have to. I'm alright." She replied brightly, wanting to give him an out. "You and me, we are alright."

Molly wanted to skirt past him but Sherlock's body was blocking her way. She felt cowardly, but couldn't look at him as she asked, " _Aren't we?_ "

Sherlock sighed. His words were cautious. "I - I hadn't intended on complicating things for you, Molly."

_That_ hadn't been what she expected him to say. She paused to process his words before looking up at him.

_Complicated?_ They had gone to bed together. Once. It had been incredible, but surely he didn't think that she expected a marriage proposal.  He'd made his position clear when he sneaked out.

"Its not complicated, Sherlock. Well, nothing more so than usual." She smiled tightly, trying to keep the conversation light.

"Good. Good." He stepped aside but his forehead was pulled together in a frown now.

Molly moved past him to the bench. The unbearable silence was worsened as she clattered about rinsing the sink and the workspace, taking in his frustrated expression. Molly resisted a mad impulse to giggle nervously as Sherlock towered over her, watching. Obviously, he wasn't going to let it be.

Since when would he be at a loss for words? What did he want from her?

No point guessing.

Molly took a deep breath before turning to him and diving in wearily. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"I lack a frame of reference for an appropriate interaction after a sexual encounter." He paused and clarified, "With someone I have high regards for."

Only Sherlock could sound haughty while confessing that he was out of his depth. He'd never had the "morning-after" conversation? Did that mean he had never had a relationship? Ever?

He continued. "It is unlike you to keep me at a distance."

Now she was truly bewildered. Had he expected her to become insipid and needy? Annoyance was beginning to simmer, but she tamped it down knowing any sign of defensiveness would just make him nasty.

Sherlock tilted his head and pursed his lips, irritated that Molly wasn't saying anything and didn't understand what he was getting at.

Suddenly, Sherlock's façade dropped away, revealing a level of discomfort she rarely saw. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. He swallowed. "Was I—Have I hurt you?" He said at last.

"No. No! It was amazing, um, you were—." Molly blurted until she caught his frustrated yet flattered expression and realized _that_ wasn't what he was asking her.

Sherlock wanted to know that hadn't damaged their friendship by leading her on to expect a romantic relationship. Molly's defensiveness evaporated immediately. He was truly in uncharted territory. She decided to take pity on him.

Molly breathed easier as she reassured him. "I'm not expecting anything of you."

Sherlock remained rigid as he pressed. "It was never my intention to cause you any harm."

Molly screwed up her courage to step closer and tentatively take his hand, not knowing if he would accept her touch. Her fears were alleviated when Sherlock immediately squeezed back and relaxed his stance. Molly understood now. He needed to know that he hadn't erred. That it wasn't a mistake. What their intimacy had really had meant to her.

Her stomach was in knots as she choose her next words with care. "Accepting that a relationship is not feasible hurts, but not as much as the perception of unreciprocated affection."

Sherlock blinked. Then his eyes went wide in comprehension. He looked stunned.

Molly knew she was setting herself up, but she had to know. "I don't regret it. Do you?" She braced herself, praying that he wouldn't shatter her heart.

Sherlock answered her with a tight embrace, running his hands up her back and then through her ponytail.

_Oh, thank God he wasn't going to pretend it didn't happen._

"No." He said firmly. "Only waiting so long."

Molly shook her head, dismissing his lie.  "This only happened because I'm leaving. You never would have come to me otherwise."

He didn't deny it, grasping her shoulders, willing her to understand. "I lead a dangerous life. My enemies wouldn't hesitate to use you to strike at me."

Molly nodded. "That's absolutely a factor."

Sherlock looked at her questioningly. Molly sighed. There was no help for it. Did he really not know or did he want to avoid hurting her feelings by stating the obvious out loud? She kept her voice placid.

"You don't want a relationship with me. Or anyone. You aren't ready. You might never be."

Sherlock broke away, suddenly defensive. His tone was mocking. "Surely, you of all people believe that love can conquer all."

Molly didn't take his bait and calmly explained, "No, love is an important prerequisite, but not what makes a relationship work. And we both know that you can't love me. That's okay. We couldn't manage a healthy romantic relationship or an equal partnership."

Sherlock's brief anger gave way to confusion. "But we are friends. We do have a partnership."

"Friendship, yes. A partnership, no." Molly said delicately. "Prior to two days ago, its always been one-sided. _Your_ cases, _your_ activities, _your_  schedule, _your_ needs."

The detectives stiffened. "Catering to the emotional needs of others would put me at a distinct disadvantage." Then he winced and heaved a sigh. "I'm a selfish, uncompromising arsehole."

Molly reached out to touch him, to demonstrate her acceptance. "I can be just as uncompromising. I need more than you can give. I need love. And romance. I can't be ignored for days or weeks at a time. I want a family. I couldn't be happy to constantly worry that you won't come home." Her voice shook as her fingers grazed his shirt, over his bullet wound. "To wait for the one day you wouldn't."

He grasped her hand, holding it over his scar. "I know."

Molly's lashes fluttered shut. She took a deep breath before softly saying, "There isn't room for me in your life. I've been down that road before. People always fail when they try to make room themselves."

"I live a solitary life for a reason. As a sociopath I cannot—"

Molly tenderly took his face in her hands but her words were fierce, "You are _not_ a sociopath. Sociopaths don't jump off buildings or face exiles to save their friends. Its your ambition, Sherlock. Its all consuming. And endless. It requires the sacrifice of everything else. But It makes you great at what you do. The _best_ at what you do."

"I am sorry, Molly."

Tears brimmed her lashes as she stroked Sherlock's hair. "Don't be. I would never try to hold you back. I can be content knowing I meant something to you." She whispered.

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock groaned as he pulled her closer. "You've always had a capacity of unconditional love and loyalty that I never understood and can never hope to find again. You're honesty and perceptiveness has always been invaluable to me. "

Molly giggled as she leaned into him. "Perceptive?! I've just now put all this together! You are a master at mixed signals, Sherlock Holmes!" She was giddy with relief. It was all out there. After years of tiptoeing, they finally had an understanding.

Standing on her toes, Molly pressed a soft, parting kiss to Sherlock's mouth. A strong, graceful hand curled around her shoulder, pulling her closer. Their lips moved together languidly until Molly shifted to break away. Surprise and arousal rolled through Molly when Sherlock tongue traced her bottom lip. Tenderness turned into urgency when Molly gasped, crumpling the wool of his coat under her fingers. Sherlock cupped her face, deepening the kiss, unwilling to let her go. Molly's sadness morphed into a familiar ache of lust when he backed her into the shelving unit, pinning her with his frame and running his hands over her body.

" _Very_ mixed signals," Molly sighed.

Lips brushed her ear, "I've never been able to commit to a farewell."

Molly's choked laugh became a gasp as he grazed her neck with rough, open-mouthed kisses. Reckless hands trailed down his chest, unbuttoning his jacket. Sherlock plundered her mouth as he gripped her hips, rocking his groin into hers. Sighs and murmurs of pleasure echoed in the small room as they became desperate, hungry for more.

Molly whimpered, remembering all of the ways he had touched her. All the thing he had made her feel. Christ, she should stop Sherlock now. They were becoming more frantic with each passing second. Instead, Molly tugged his hair, forcing his head back so she could nip his ear.

Sherlock's mouth quirked. His voice was pure seduction when he asked, "I saw you took note the love bite you gave me earlier. How does it make you feel when you see it, Molly?"

Nails raked over his thin shirt. Sherlock snapped his head back in a gasp. She nuzzled his exposed throat and jaw, admitting, "Ashamed. Excited. Horny."

Sherlock tugged on the tie holding her ponytail, releasing her hair. Her brown tresses twisted in his fingers as he nibbled her lips.

"I find it arousing as well." Sherlock confessed hoarsely. He gave her a feral leer. "Might I see the ones I gave you?"

Molly's breathing hitched, her eyes flying open at his salacious request. This was quickly getting out of hand. She was at work for Godsake!

"The doors." She hissed.

"Locked."

"Camera."

"Disabled months ago." He assured her.

It was ridiculous that she was even considering this!

"Okay." She breathed. "Quickly." As if she could deny him anything right now. Not when he looked at her like that!

Sherlock stepped back to expeditiously unbutton her jumper. He exhaled as he peeled it open to reveal a light-blue lace bra. No one would know by the look on Sherlock's face, but it wasn't anything fancy. Relatively simple, but pretty.

Molly shivered as he traced the edges of her bra, plucking at the bow between her breasts. He moved close for an artful kiss and to slide his hands under her jumper. He leisurely explored her mouth with his tongue as he unclasped her bra, massaging her back with his fingers.

Distracting Molly with his lips, Sherlock manipulated the bra strap through the arm of her jumper. She didn't realize his trick until he pulled the second strap though.

A wicked smirk spread across the detectives face as he whipped the bra from her chest with a flourish. He stuffed the bra in his coat pocket before spotting something over her shoulder and steering her backwards.

Sherlock whirled her around to face a mirror conveniently next to the gowns and face shields. He pressed his fully-clothed body into her back, nuzzling the top of her head. Sherlock looked positively menacing, enveloped in his heavy Belstaff and looming over her exposed form. His eyes glittered as he possessively placed his hands under her breasts, on her rib cage. Molly's nipples hardened and her lashes fluttered half-closed as she took in the erotic sight.

There were indeed four light purple bruises on Molly's breasts from when Sherlock had roughly shagged her on the kitchen table two days prior. He drew a sharp breath, further incited by the evidence of his claim on her. The goose bumps on Molly's skin registered the coldness of the room, but she felt nothing but liquid heat.

Molly turned her head to meet him in a sloppy, frantic kiss. Her breathing rate synchronized with Sherlock's, matching the rise and fall of his chest behind her. Sherlock groaned as Molly stretched her arms over her head to clasp around the back of his neck, giving him a tantalizing view and unobstructed access to her breasts.

Molly's eyes turned back to the mirror so she could watch his stormy ones as she parroted his earlier question. "How do you feel when you see these lovely marks on my breasts, Sherlock? Knowing you put them there?"

" _Pure. Masculine. Pride_." He growled as he lightly touched the marks. "I think about the sounds you made when I gave you these. The sounds you made when I was inside you. I think about the various other ways of marking you as mine."

Molly quivered, feeling a tightness in her core and the dampness in her knickers. "I'd let you, you know."

Sherlock's eyes flashed as he gently kneaded her breasts. "You would? You would let me come here? Right here? Naughty girl." He purred.

Molly licked his neck with a cheeky smirk, "Yes, for you, anything."

Sherlock released a shattered breath as he fondled her. Molly gasped, arching her chest for more contact. Amazing such an aggressive, dangerous man could be so gentle. And how insanely hot it was when he wasn't...

Molly unclasped her fingers around his neck. She tangled one hand into his dark curls. Her other arm came down to reach behind and cup his erection. His cock strained against his trousers and her fingers.

She brushed a teasing kiss on the bruise on his jaw. "Do you look at this and think of me, Sherlock? All the things we did to each other?"

"I've not thought of anything else for days." Sherlock rasped.

Molly moaned, surging in his arms as he rolled her nipples with his fingers. "Do you like seeing these marks on your body, Molly?"

"Oh, yes. I think of you. They're proof." She panted, rubbing his erection more firmly in her fingers.

"Proof of what?" He urged, sliding a hand down her belly to pluck at the top of her trousers.

Molly hesitated. Sherlock drew his hands to her middle in a light embrace, not touching her until she answered.

"Oh! I - That I was yours. That I belonged to you. For one night." She whispered.

Sherlock groaned harshly in her hair. His voice was strangled when he commanded, "Be mine one more time, Molly. Let me pleasure you. One more time."

Molly nodded desperately as Sherlock went to unbutton her trousers. Pushing her closer to the wall, he directed her, "Lean and place your hands against the mirror."

She moved to obey Sherlock as his fingers slipped under her knickers when he suddenly pulled away and jumped back as if burnt.

Molly didn't need to ask to know that someone was coming. She frantically re-buttoned her jumper and pulled her lab coat over her chest to conceal her lack of a bra.

Sherlock's face was flushed and his lips swollen. He calmed his breathing, waiting with his hand on the door knob. At her nod, he opened it, to reveal Mike Stanford at the other side of the door.

"I'll let you know if there is anything else, Molly." He said casually while walking ahead, holding the door for her. He acknowledged Mike with a sharp nod.

Mike glanced at his watch. "Molly, isn't your shift over? Or are you going directly to the pub to meet us for drinks?"

Molly's voice was shaky as she replied, "No, I'm going to stop at my flat first. I'll see you in a few hours?"

"Very good." He nodded as he continued past her to the room they had just left.

Molly looked to find Sherlock, but he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the comments and Kudos so far. This chapter was un-beta'd so if there are any mistakes, they are my own. Just let me know and I'll fix them.
> 
> Forget anything I ever wrote about the length. I already wrote the end and some of the middle, but it just keeps getting away from me. 
> 
> Probably not what everyone wanted to read, but please let me know your thoughts. Don't worry, some fluff is coming their way. Thanks!


	5. Unquenchable

The pub was surprisingly crowded for a weekday. Decorated with 18th-century, vintage tat and muted tellies, the craft beer house was the perfect choice for Molly's send-off with her colleagues. Luckily, someone had the foresight to make reservations for the group as all the tables were now occupied and standing room was quickly becoming in short supply.

Molly barely had time to make it to her flat to shower and dress, as well as feed Toby before racing back to East London for the meet up. She'd dressed with more care than she usually did. Her hair flowed freely down her back and she wore a new pair of pumps that complimented her sleek black skirt and jumper.

Send-offs of this sort were an unfortunately frequent tradition for several of the departments at Bart's. The often transient nature of medicine was something that Molly had the most difficulty coping with. She gabbed with all of her colleagues, as they reflected on how far they'd all come, how much they'd changed in the years they had known one another.

They unanimously agreed that university and medical school had been rigorous, but their time as Foundation Doctors had been nothing short of gruelling and dehumanizing. It had been shocking to witness the effects of crushing fatigue and merciless workloads on her year’s batch of newly-minted doctors as they rotated through different specialities and hospitals. Young doctors, so hungry to learn, quickly deteriorated into heartless zombies with adversarial attitudes toward the ill and dying. Never a competitive or insecure person, Molly had been woefully prepared for the indifference and outright hazing from supervising physicians. Medical professionals eat their young, indeed.

Molly had risen to the challenge, honing her talents for introspection, analytical thinking and listening. Her mistake, however, had been neglecting to cultivate the social aspect of her career. Connections with patients and family members came easy with her sincere sympathy and respect for the emotional aspects of receiving healthcare. Politicking and negotiating with supervisors and colleagues had been another matter.

Two months into her training, Molly had been labelled "mousy" and "timid", much to her dismay and confusion. While never the life of the party, Molly kept a circle of close friends. She participated in joint projects and attended parties. She dated.

Every new doctor is eager to hit the ground running while being afraid of making mistakes or asking too many questions but Molly had taken it too far by second-guessing herself and letting others take the lead. She initially struggled with communicating her needs and articulating her ideas – good ideas. Attendings dismissed her, passing on better projects and tasks to those less competent, but more confident.

Perceptions and personalities didn't change overnight. It had taken Molly years of consciously stepping outside her comfort zone to dispel the notion she was weak or shy just because she wasn't the most outspoken.

Her six year surgical speciality registrar training at Bart's had been her chance to shine. She loved pathology and the challenge of discovering the cause of death. The morgue was often the most neglected, mysterious part of a hospital yet she found ways of increasing her visibility and getting noticed in accordance with her personality. Speaking up when it had in impact. Taking leadership roles, though she was uncomfortable. Helping and mentoring others. Taking _credit_. Always remaining calm and prepared. It had been her greatest challenge to learn to flex her personality to be heard without being brash or aggressive.

Of course, a certain consulting detective had been the exception. Until a year ago, all of her coping mechanisms for dealing with her nervousness would go out the window the moment Sherlock would waltz into the morgue with his beautiful azure eyes, striking cheekbones, and outrageous behaviour. The young woman who had started at Bart's seven years ago would never had been able to stand up to him. Or to engage in a spontaneous one-off and face the fallout with heart still intact. Mostly.

Molly startled when Mike Stamford leaned over her shoulder to whisper in her ear. "You're being summoned."

"What?" Molly asked, her eyes following the direction of his gaze.

Oh! Sherlock! Sherlock was here. In a pub?

For a moment, Molly believed that she was imagining things. Or that she had some how conjured him with her thoughts.

"Yes." Mike confirmed in a disapproving tone. Apparently, that first bit had been said out loud.

Sherlock was indeed sitting alone next to a high-top against the wall, eyes glued to his phone. Scowling as usual.

"What is he doing here?" Molly asked incredulously. Damn. She knew she was blushing.

"Wouldn't say."

"Well, what did he say?"

"He greeted me and asked me to send you over." Mike huffed.

_Send her over!_ Tactful as always.

"Did you invite him to join us over here?"

"Of course." Mike rolled his eyes upwards.

"Right." Molly said, resigned. Mike stepped back to allow Molly to rise from her seat.

"Tonight is about you." Mike told her kindly. Then he winked. "Tell him to sod off."

The pathologist acknowledged him with a bashful smile. Dr. Stamford liked Sherlock and respected his work, but his loyalty was to Molly. He was protective of her, knowing of her "prior" crush on Sherlock – well, most everyone did. Mike disliked it when Sherlock was rude or took advantage of her.

Molly grabbed her beer and walked to his table, trying to slow her pulse to a normal rate. What did he want? If it was for a case, he would have texted. John was absent, so not a social call. Was he here to see her? Sherlock was in the midst of a case. Surely, he wasn't interested in anything else...from her.

Not that she was interested. Much.

Molly flushed, thinking of their "conversation" hours earlier. It had gone better than she'd expected. It had been a mature, adult discussion. Until it wasn't. Molly had no idea what had possessed her. The way she had behaved! The things that he had said! She was still reeling in disbelief that they'd been so caught up that they'd almost had sex. Again. At her workplace. On her second to last day. And almost got caught to boot!

What was it about the man that had always turned her into a complete nutter?

"Hullo, Sherlock. That was fast?" She greeted him brightly.

"Fast?" He grunted at her, eyes still on his phone.

"Your case. Mr. Adair."

"That. Barely a four." He drawled in his bored tone.

"Oh. That's... disappointing."

Was he angry with her? Hard to tell. He was usually grumpy.

Molly shuffled on her feet before Sherlock seemed to remember his manners, finally peeling his eyes from his phone to acknowledge her. He gestured for her to sit down in one of the two unoccupied chairs. Molly started to slide into the seat across from him, but he budged it out of the way, jerking his head to the chair next to him.

Okay...

Molly resisted the urge to fold her arms defensively, thrown off by his body language and demeanour. He went back to his phone and Molly scanned the table, looking at everything but him. It was blistering hot in here, how could he still be wearing his coat?

Odd. There was a beer sitting on the table. Untouched.

"Here to grab a bite to eat then?" Molly inquired.

"No, no food. Field work. To finish something I started."

Molly's breath hitched. Was that innuendo? Was he throwing her words from earlier back at her? Was he flirting?

But he had such a strop on. Doubtful he'd be forthcoming about his intentions. Perhaps some flattery to get him to come around?

"So, what did you do to Doctor Bowen?" Molly asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders absently.

“The attending podiatrist?” Molly prompted.

_That_ got Sherlock's attention. He looked up at her then. Crinkles spread across his face as his lips pulled into a self-satisfied smile. But he still wasn't telling.

Sherlock knew _exactly_ what she was talking about. "I saw him streak out of the clinic as fast as his legs could carry him. Over an hour early. _Conveniently_ giving you the opportunity to nick his supplies with minimal fuss."

"I answered a page." Sherlock said, his eyes alight in unholy mischief.

Molly smiled, waiting for the punch line.

"Page was from his wife. I merely told her that he wasn't scheduled for today."

Molly's hand flew to her mouth to stifle her laugh. Doctor Bowen had a reputation for philandering and his wife kept him on a tight leash. He would have lots of explaining to do. She pitied the rage his staff would endure tomorrow.

"If you were anyone else, I'd tell you to watch your back. Why not just ask?"

Now that Sherlock was a celebrity, most of the staff at Bart's positively tripped over themselves to help him despite his brash, antagonistic behaviour.

"Four years ago, I requested use of a water spray drill. He told me he wouldn't throw water on me if I was alight." Sherlock said, completely deadpan.

Now Molly laughed whole-heartedly. "You can't blame him for holding a grudge."

The pathologist took in Sherlock's quizzical expression. "Sherlock, within two minutes of meeting him, you told him his intelligence could quadruple and he would still be a moron."

"Best to begin introductions with insults. Keeps expectations in check." He quipped.

"It certainly makes for a lasting impre—."

Their banter was interrupted by a bloke stumbling into their table. Sherlock caught him, setting him upright.

"Sorry about that mate." He slurred, quite drunk.

"That’s quite alright." Sherlock said cheerfully with a smile that Molly knew was feigned, but utterly convincing.

"Say, they are predicting snow for tomorrow." The drunk blurted.

Sherlock scoffed lightly. "My experience is that the weatherman is all talk and no trousers."

"All the same, I'd prepare for a heavy fall. Off, I go now."

After watching the man swagger away, she turned to Sherlock. That silly grin was still plastered to his face.

What on earth was going on?

Sherlock’s beer! It was missing. The napkin too.

She turned her head to confirm that the stranger had taken it off the table, but Sherlock directed her attention back to him by grabbing her hand. He leaned into her, lifting his brow in reproach. _Don't stare._ Molly knew enough to play along as Sherlock's eyes followed the bloke over her shoulder, making sure he departed.

A decoy. She had been a decoy to block the view of anyone that witnessed the stranger taking the beer and napkin off the table. Obviously, Sherlock had put a message on the underside of the napkin. And the bloke had been passing on a message to Sherlock. A snowfall. For tomorrow. Seriously?

Molly hid her face in her other hand, trying to conceal her amusement before the giggles got the better of her.

"What?" Sherlock barked, his mask fading.

Molly shook her head, trying to compose herself. Agitation flitted across his face . "Oh fine!" She said teasingly. "It was just the most obvious, heavy-handed spy speech ever. I think I'm disappointed." She laughed, wiping her eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, affronted but blazing with mirth. His thumb slowly caressed her palm, sending her pulse racing.

Molly noticed the change in him then. Sherlock was leaning into her, touching her. His legs were sprawled, one of his feet resting between hers.

"Do you even know him?" Molly whispered.

"No, mercenary informant."

"Glad I could help."

Sherlock was still massaging her hand. Suddenly, she felt as if she was struggling for air. Every nerve in her body buzzed with excitement. Was he interested again?

God, she shouldn't. Nothing good could come from it.

Maybe Sherlock had heard her thoughts. Just like that, he stiffened, turning to ice. He cleared his throat, his eyes directing her gaze back to her table.

Her mates had noticed. They were watching, tittering. She didn't have to hear them to know that they thought Sherlock was playing her again.

Well, he had.

Molly suddenly felt foolish for hoping Sherlock was there to see her.

"I should head back." She stammered, pulling her hand out of his.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock agreed, averting his eyes.

She took a deep breath and smiled. "I'll see you around."

When Sherlock didn't say anything, she walked back to her table, drawing short breaths. Of course he was here on a case! Really, it was time to let go. Her attraction to him had been validated and reciprocated. And now it was over. She couldn't help but feel she was just acting slutty now, throwing herself at him like that. God, she was pathetic!

Another beer was waiting for her. Molly took her second beer of the night eagerly, sliding back into her seat, affecting a confident posture. Not wanting to show her disappointment.

The music and chatter around her was muffled, barely audible. But she managed to give appropriate responses and enough eye contact to seem attentive. With her head bowed, Molly peeked from under her lashes to the table she had just vacated. Sherlock remained seated, his hands under his chin, looking contemplative.

His contact was complete. Maybe he wanted to stay? To join them? Molly dismissed the thought straight-away. Sherlock never needed an invitation to crash anyone's party.

Molly's leg bounced, anxiously. Maybe if she switched seats; faced the other direction?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Philip Darrow, a technician in A&E. He had slid next to her and was asking a question.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that?" She asked, now giving him her attention.

"I was asking if you wanted to come over to play billiards." A beat. "Other people are invited, of course."

"Oh, I can't. I have an early morning tomorrow and so much to do." She fibbed. Honestly, she just wanted some alone time now.

Odd, that the times she felt the loneliest was when she was with other people. The pub was packed with over a hundred people and she felt lonely. _Ugh!_

Philip pressed her a bit, but she paid him little mind as he described his billiards room.

The ring of her phone pierced the drone of the crowded pub. Molly leapt at the diversion. "Sorry, have to check this." A text.

_He wants to copulate with you. - SH._

Copulate?! Her eyes flew to his direction. His posture was rigid and his lips pursed. He was trying to pretend he wasn't watching her. She texted back.

_No way you can hear our conversation from over there._

_Don’t have to. - SH._

_Spies everywhere?_

_Anyone in England could see he’s an utter wanker. - SH._

Oh, my god. He's jealous! Molly's drew in a shallow breath, feeling giddy. Philip had been speaking with her earlier. Was that why he was cranky when she first went over there?

_Ha! Never guessed that you knew so many rude words!_

Sherlock hesitated a moment before sending his next text.

_You like it when I’m rude. - SH._

Well, that escalated quickly. Molly could feel her temperature rising and involuntarily squeezed her legs closed. Sherlock was _flirting_ with her. He had to be here to see her! What would the chances be of him making a contact in a bar at the same time as her? After what had passed between them earlier?

Good God, maybe he was waiting for her to make the next move? He'd instigated all of their encounters. Maybe he wanted reassurance that he wasn't taking advantage?

Something made her pause. She really shouldn't. It would be completely crossing a line from a one-off to...something else.

Later, she would credit the beer for sending such an outrageous response. She watched him very carefully. It was like a thunderclap broke over Sherlock when he read it.

_Don’t worry. If I go home with him, it’s you I’d be thinking about._

Molly could see Sherlock's eyes widen and his nose flare. He swallowed, quickly sending a response.

_Time to take your leave. Grab your coat and make your farewells. - SH._ An edict, not a request.

Dampness seeped into her knickers immediately. Thank god! She started to pull herself together, but stopped, wincing. She paused to text him again. _I've only been here for a little over an hour!_

Sherlock finally looked at her, shooting her withering look, clearly miffed that she was hesitating. _Tell them I need your assistance for a case. - SH._

The pathologist couldn't get out of there fast enough. She fumbled her way through her excuses and her goodbyes, taking in her colleagues pitying expressions. Thankfully, they didn't argue, assuming that Sherlock was just being a git, interrupting her evening out with her friends. If only they knew.

Ten minutes later, Molly stood before Sherlock, buttoning her coat closed. She snapped on her gloves, pulled her purse over her shoulder, and looked up at him slyly. He took her hand, unexpectedly leading her to the back of the bar. Wouldn't they go out the main entrance to hail a cab?

Molly didn't bother to question Sherlock as he pulled her through a service door and up a winding, narrow staircase. Once on the landing, Sherlock released her hand and pressed her against the wall. Their mouths met in a frantic, greedy kiss that seemed to go on and on.

Lips brushed her ear. "No more waiting. No interruptions this time."

Excitement ratcheted up Molly's spine. A quickie! Sherlock was searching for a secluded spot for a quickie. Hopefully, just to take the edge off for another round at home.

Sherlock broke away, pulling a tool from inside his coat and jimmying the door. In a flash, he shoved her through it, into the outside air. Molly heard him shutting and locking the door as she took in her surroundings.

Sherlock had led them up a service entrance to the seasonal rooftop bar. It was dark, but Molly could see that the terrace was tiny and non-descript. The patio was empty. Gentle breezes swirled dust over the surfaces of the neglected courtyard. All the furniture and accessories were stacked away for winter as it lacked the fire pits and heaters of the swanky bars that remained open all-year round.

Molly frowned, confused. Surely not here?

The weight of Sherlock's hands on her shoulders confirmed his intent, to pick up right where they had left off. Right there, out in the open. Where anyone of the neighbouring buildings might see. Molly hadn't attempted public sex since she was a teenager and never _this_ public. Trust Sherlock, the world's greatest show-off, to have an exhibition kink.

Molly sucked in the cold air as Sherlock steered her to a pergola in the corner. It was a cold, but not biting January evening. Just above freezing with no snow. Only the brightest stars were visible above the heavy clouds, out shown by London's dazzling lights.

The pergola was not fully-enclosed. It had two grimy glass walls and was not weatherproof. There was a bar fashioned in wood with a granite top. The refrigeration equipment had been stripped, put away for winter. A tarp covered what appeared to be a grill. The canopy had been removed. It wouldn't afford them any privacy or protection from the elements.

Molly did a second take, not sure how this would work.

Sherlock brought Molly to a halt within the structure. His interest in it became clear when he shoved his hand against the Plexiglas, testing its sturdiness. Molly's jaw dropped open when he turned back to her with a devilish grin, his icy-blue eyes determined. A prop. He meant to do this standing up?

"This is mad! Anyone could see us!" Molly hissed as Sherlock threaded his fingers through her hair.

"Detection as a result of the noise would be a more apt concern." Sherlock huffed, tightening his hand in her hair, forcing her mouth to his.

Desire flared as Sherlock backed her to the wall, towering over her small frame. His mouth moved over hers, ravenous and single-minded, unwilling to be deterred. Molly acquiesced immediately, twisting her tongue with Sherlock's as she yanked the knot out of his scarf, craving a consummation to their reckless dance begun hours ago.

Thank god she'd worn a skirt!

Very fitting to risk a little tryst out in the open with only the cover of night to protect them. With Sherlock, a cold and seductive creature of darkness himself. The threat of being discovered was thrilling.

Molly pushed him off, staring him down as she unbuttoned her coat with a smirk. "You better work fast. It’s bloody cold out here."

Sherlock raised his chin defiantly as he unbuttoned his own coat. He swiped at her leg, raising her knee. Sherlock held Molly's thigh to his hip with a gloved hand. His other hand went to his mouth to pull the glove off with his teeth. The glove was shoved in his coat pocket. Molly leaned against the wall, sighing as he traced her knee with his fingers.

Cold air licked at Molly's skin as Sherlock rucked up her skirt, caressing her thigh. He inhaled sharply as he slid a finger under her stocking. Molly made a note to dress up for him if another opportunity ever arose. His fingers gently explored the inside of her leg.

A whimper escaped Molly when she felt two fingers press against the wetness in her knickers. Sherlock's expression was fierce despite his gentleness in teasing her softness with swirls and zigzags. She couldn't resist reaching out to rub his erection through his trousers, watching the tension fade from his eyes.

"You came here for me tonight." Molly told him. It wasn't a question, yet required a confirmation. The button of his trousers popped open.

He groaned obstinately, snapping her pants against her core.

She gasped and retaliated by pulling his trousers down. His cock popped out eagerly.

"Was any of that real? Or just a diversion to get my attention?" Molly asked as she stroked him to full hardness.

"Yes, killed two birds with one stone." Sherlock croaked as she teased the head of his cock with her thumb.

“You are adorable when you're jealous."

Sherlock snarled, pushing her pants aside and plunging his long, slender finger inside. The coldness of his skin made Molly squeal. Her face contorted in shock and arousal, as Sherlock pumped his finger, twisting and curling it just so.

"So wet for me already."

She moaned, but quickly batted his hands away, taking charge. She shimmied out of her knickers, inhaling as she heard rustling and the snapping of latex.

Molly grasped the lapels of Sherlock's coat and jerked him between her legs. Enormous, strong hands immediately found their way under her skirt, gripping her bum. She raised her chin to plant him with a searing kiss.

"Next time. We'll go slow next time.” She urged him.

With a low grunt, Sherlock lifted Molly above him, into position. Her pumps fell off her feet as she crossed her ankles across his back, under his heavy Belstaff. Molly's long gasp of pleasure turned slightly pained as Sherlock slid into her. Sherlock stilled immediately, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming heat and tightness.

Sensing his concern, Molly soothed him, stroking his neck and kissing him softly. "Big." She gasped by way of explanation.

Indeed, his penetration was rougher tonight because of the lack of time for foreplay. Molly had been so physically stimulated the last time she had underestimated his size. Her mild discomfort ebbed quickly as she adjusted to the fullness, her arousal returning full-force.

This wasn't a position she'd tried before. Though it looked appealing on telly and porn, few men possess the strength and stamina to make it work. Certainly, not any of her past lovers. With her chin resting at Sherlock's forehead, it seemed somewhat disorienting and very – _high_. Her grip on his shoulders wasn't good, but she felt never felt as secure as she did in his arms.

Molly she kissed him deeply, sweeping her tongue over his teeth, tightening her legs around his slim hips, pulling him deeper. His ardent groan in her mouth reverberated through her body. At his first tentative thrust, her gasp of pure pleasure rang through the terrace. He gently shushed the petite woman in his arms, fighting to maintain his own silence. Sherlock pressed closer, flattening Molly firmly between his body and the wall, pumping into her with slow, steady thrusts.

Molly sighed his name, throwing her head back, forgetting her apprehension and the cold. She revelled in his extraordinary strength as he _bounced_ her up and down his cock, filling her with his thickness. It was perfect, but still not what she needed.

" _You burn me_." Sherlock panted against her neck, picking up speed.

What had started as playful and forbidden instantly ignited into dire urgency. The twinge of pain earlier had stirred a dark desperation; she needed to feel his strength, the full extent of his power. Molly had always ached for Sherlock, a witness to his necessary, but lonely estrangement from society.

What better way to defy the desolation in their hearts than with a vulgar, carnal rhapsody in an abandoned arena for socialization?

"Harder, Sherlock." Molly whispered, chanting breathlessly. "Fuck me hard."

The detective felt it too and surrendered to his baser instincts. His mouth gaped in a soundless shout as he slammed into her with abandon. Molly buried her face in his collar, trying to stifle her cries and encouragements. Their frustrations and longing, flying away with each collision. The tender hurt was affirming. Freeing.

Sherlock growled as he swung Molly around, positioning her body on the bar. Molly gripped the edge of the bar top, bracing her upper body on her elbows while he supported her lower half. The detective pulled her ankles over his shoulders, cradling her bum and low back, bending her body into a deep "V" shape. The position was awkward and risky, requiring Molly's utter trust. Comprehension dawned when Sherlock snapped his hips into her.

A smug smile crossed Sherlock's face as he took in Molly's wide-eyed, shocked expression. The position allowed him deeper penetration and an easier range of motion. Molly threw her head back, biting her lip to capture her moans as Sherlock relentlessly pounded her. Sweat dripped down his face and neck despite the cold, winter air.

"Oh, God! _Don't stop_." Molly cried, unable to stay quiet.

Sherlock growled, driving into her ruthlessly. His intense gaze locked onto hers as he demanded, "Whom are you thinking of now, Molly?"

"You, Sherlock! _Always you!_ "

Molly's words almost sent him over the edge. Sherlock shouted, before snapped his eyes shut and withdrawing. He calmed himself by reciting pi backwards from the 25th digit as he set about getting her into the right position to achieve orgasm. Sherlock hoisted Molly onto the bar, making sure her coat protected her bum and legs.

Assuming Sherlock had reached his climax, Molly reached for him, pulling his bare hand to her core to encourage him to finish her off with his fingers.

"Oh, God." she begged him. "Sherlock, I need—"

"I know." Sherlock murmured reassuringly, jerking his hand back to push on her shoulder.

Molly hissed in shock and anger when he swivelled her body to lie on the frigid granite. She bolted upright to leap off, but strong arms caught her. Sherlock clambered onto the bar with her to quickly settle between her knees and pull her legs into his warm coat. He tucked his scarf under her head before sliding his arm under her shoulder and pressing her down, underneath him. The sting against her back was forgotten when Sherlock plunged back inside, filling her with his fire.

Her body spasmed in pleasure as Sherlock devoured her mouth. His free hand went to her clit as he thrust firmly, adjusting her hips until he heard the distinctive, high-pitched gasp that made his toes curl.

"Is that it, darling? That the sweet spot? Just. Like. That?" Sherlock purred as he buried his face in her hair.

Molly couldn't speak. Could only answer with incessant, needy cries as she bucked into him, rejoicing in his desperation, in the roughness that contradicted his tender words. Her hands twisted in a death-grip in Sherlock's coat, hanging on for dear life, as he fucked her into the granite surface, driving her to an edge she never knew existed.

"Let go, Molly." Sherlock commanded breathlessly. "I've got you."

Sherlock embraced Molly tightly, maintaining his relentless pace as she convulsed under him, her release rushing through her, violent and overwhelming. Her loud cries were barely muffled in his shoulder. Her name came out a deep groan as Sherlock succumbed with one, two, three more hard thrusts and collapsed on top of her.

Molly lay underneath him, still clutching his coat, eyes shut, willing her heart to stop hammering. Sherlock recovered quickly, soothing her with a gentle kiss. They both shook violently, curling around each other, now feeling the chill as their ardour simmered down.

"Incredible." Sherlock gasped, withdrawing and pulling her upright. He bade her to stay put as he fetched her shoes and gingerly put them on her feet before lowering her to the patio. The bar was narrow and slick. How had he managed to keep them on it through all that?

They hastily adjusted their clothes and refastened their coats. Molly found her purse. Their clothes were covered in grime and dirt. On shaky legs, Molly made her way to the door, but Sherlock lead her away in the opposite direction.

"No, no. We were heard. Best go this way."

Molly glanced back at the door, seeing that Sherlock had known better and had barricaded it. A faint pounding from the other side could be heard. Sherlock scoffed at her alarm and helped her over a low wall to the adjoining rooftop. He silently guided her down to a fire escape and down the alleyway, sufficiently far enough from the tavern to discreetly re-emerge on the main street.

Sherlock hailed a cab. Molly needed no encouragement to get in. He rattled off the address to Baker street and pulled her close, sharing his warmth with her. There was no disagreement with his suggestion when he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"I believe a hot bath is the next order of things, yes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N. Just a side note, if you haven't ever had sex with someone in the out of doors when its 40 degrees out, you should try it. It can be really hot! Though I wouldn't recommend the stand-up sex unless you are really sure he won't drop you! We all know Sherlock would never drop Molly! 
> 
> Thank you so much to my fantastic Beta, miabicicletta! She is all about helping me edit, edit, and edit. She rocks, seriously. 
> 
> I hope everyone in the States and Canada (and wherever else) had a wonderful Mother's Day. I appreciate all of the responses and feedback. Please let me know your thoughts of this chapter!


	6. Uncelebratory

" _Oh, for God's sake!_ "

Sherlock's sudden outburst jolted Molly from her half-frozen, but dreamy haze of anticipation. Though she was chilled and her feet were numb, Molly immediately tensed. The detective's posture had gone rigid, his expression stony as he glared out the window of the cab while jerking his wallet out of his coat.  
  
Molly's wary gaze followed his out the window. The taxi had just pulled onto Baker Street and his building was visible. They'd arrive in the next moment. Nothing seemed amiss.

Dozens of scenarios raced through her mind. Had he detected signs of another break-in? Was one of his enemies waiting for him at the flat? Or his brother?

"What's wrong? Is it a break-in?" Molly wasn't sure why she was whispering.

"No," Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Something much more insidious. Come on."

Sherlock bounded out of the cab before it had a chance to come to a stop, rudely tossing the fare to the driver while urging Molly to hurry. Molly scrambled out of the cab.

It was all for naught.

Before her pumps had a chance to hit the pavement, they were besieged by a dozen squealing fan girls. They had staked out Speedy's, a pride of lions lying in wait for the gazelle to visit the watering hole.

Despite his notoriety of being London's most ill-tempered, uncooperative celebrity, Sherlock Holmes had quite the fan base. The detective had no use for fans or groupies. He despised publicity, refused to sign autographs, only attended press conferences under threat, and certainly never answered fan mail.

Sherlock's followers remained undeterred, however, and inundated him with countless tokens of love and requests for signed photos, particularly in December and the beginning of January.

But this was new. Usually they had enough respect – and enough sense – to not converge around his building. One never knew when a flaming object might be launched out the window.

A firm grip on Molly's coat dragged her through the excited crowd as they clamoured for Sherlock's attention.

And what were they trying to push into their hands?  Cards and gifts...Oh!  Of course.

Tomorrow was the 6th of January.  Right.  

The pathologist's alarm dissipated, morphing into amazement as she was able to focus beyond the mayhem to decipher the shouts and messages coming Sherlock's way.

Oh boy. John hadn't been exaggerating when he said it got worse every year.

Don't laugh, Molly. _Don't laugh!_

Eventually they made it to the front door. Sherlock made quick work of the Yale lock. But not before Molly noticed the dozens of small parcels, piles of cards, and several bundles of flowers stacked on the pavement, resting along the foundation. A half dozen sets of half-deflated helium balloons floated back and forth in the frigid breeze.

Oh God. One set was tied off to a stuffed teddy bear!

"Stop gawking!" Sherlock yanked her through the entryway, throwing the door shut with a resounding slam.

They hadn't been ensconced in the safety of the flat for two seconds before Sherlock started sulking. "I told you to hurry!"

Poor Sherlock. Molly didn't have it in her to be irked by his obnoxiousness. Still, she couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. "Skirts and high heels aren't exactly conducive to quick getaways."

Narrow eyes gave her the once over and much to Molly's relief, Sherlock appeared to deflate, releasing a soft chuckle. "No, I suppose not."

The detective heaved a long-suffering sigh, running his hand over his chest as if to make sure he was still in once piece. His expression quickly turned sheepish.

This was too funny. Sherlock was constantly hurtling himself into perilous confrontations with madmen, but a brief brush with a gaggle of admirers sent him running.

Speaking of which...

Molly pulled out an envelope that had been stuffed into her coat pocket, twisting it in her fingers. It had been lovingly adorned with stickers and glitter, addressed to Sherlock in a practiced, girly scrawl.

Wow. Just _wow_.  
  
Sherlock snatched it from her straight away. Perhaps fearful that she'd tease him by reading it out loud as John had on occasion?

Not wanting to slight him any further, Molly somehow managed to not dissolve into giggles as Sherlock impatiently  **–**  and rather forcibly  **–**  pushed her ahead of him, up the steps to his flat.  
  
It had been months since she'd been in Sherlock's flat. Not since John's wedding actually. It looked as it normally did  **–**  except remarkably tidy. The usual litter of papers and books on his desk and coffee tables had been stacked to the side. The surfaces of his kitchen appeared remarkably sterile, devoid of any cadaver limbs, his lab equipment neatly tucked away.

Not that he would see it that way, but evidently Mrs. Hudson had taken pity on Sherlock, preparing his flat for inevitable company tomorrow. His parents perhaps?

No doubt he would find some reason to make himself scarce as he did every year.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just don't think I've ever seen the surface of your kitchen table before." Molly winced, bouncing on her toes nervously. She hoped he couldn't hear her teeth chattering. The flat was really drafty. "Shall I fix us some tea?"

His response was a disgruntled noise far too juvenile for a 37-year-old man. Sherlock was cranky now, but at least he hadn't told her to leave.  
  
There was always a week-long conniption when Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to dust or hover the flat when Sherlock wasn't in the midst of a case. She knew better than to bin anything, no matter how damaged or inconsequential, but Sherlock thrived on the messiness, the disarray. John had dubbed it ‘an adolescent affront to domestic order.’

To be fair, that state of his flat _was_ somewhat disconcerting in that all the random, eccentric artefacts that usually littered the flat had been stowed away. Even the wall above the couch was bare, absent his usual collage of grisly murder scenes and informants.

Unsure how to proceed without the evening disintegrating into complete awkwardness, Molly decided tea was indeed the best solution. As it was routine for any of Sherlock's guests, she wasn't phased by having to take it upon herself to make it.  
  
“At least after tomorrow, you're off the hook until Mothering Sunday," Molly offered, starting toward the kitchen.  
  
But the detective startled her, stepping into her personal space to catch her waist. Sherlock tried to affect a scowl, but the corners of his lips quirked, belaying his irritation. Molly released a breath she didn't know she was holding when he tugged at her scarf, dropping it haphazardly on the rug of the sitting room.  
  
 _Oh!_ Never say that Sherlock Holmes was one to be deterred when on a mission. Especially when time was of the essence.  
  
So fixated on his nearness and the unmistakable gleam of sexual intent in his eyes, Molly almost missed his hopeful retort. "A case could present itself. Still plenty of time for someone to be murdered."  
  
 _Really?_ Such a horrible thing to wish for. And typically Sherlock.  
  
"Its just one day." Molly shot him a reproving glance. Following his lead, her fingers worked at the buttons of his coat.

"Its not." His tone was grave, yet mocking. "It’s a week long ordeal. Oh, it starts innocently enough."

The Belstaff hit the floor with a satisfying thud.

Molly's nose wrinkled in confusion. Sherlock explained in a hushed timbre, as if telling a ghost story. "Mounting superfluous chatter on social media. Unsolicited cards. Then the nonessential phone calls."

"All of five!" Molly rolled her eyes, playing along.  
  
"Attempts to extract promises and commitments." Her dusty coat joined his jacket on the lino as they stumbled through the kitchen, grinning like idiots. "Tedious familial obligations."

"That you always evade." Molly countered, now onto his shirt. Sherlock gripped her wrists, pulling them over her head so he could peel her jumper off. His eyes sparkled with mischief as it sailed over his shoulder.  
  
"Which then escalates to unwanted _contact_." Sherlock's last word came out a hoarse whisper as Molly undid his flies, deliberately brushing his groin. He swallowed before resuming, trying to keep up the ludicrous charade. "Stalking. Unscheduled social calls. Possibly a flash mob."  
  
Molly's eyes widened and _not_ just because her skirt was sliding down her thighs. "Thirteen people managing to join you at restaurant without your prior knowledge does _not_ constitute a flash mob. And no one will try that again, believe me."  
  
Sherlock smirked, steadying the pathologist as she stepped out of her brand-new skirt and pumps, leaving them on the floor of the corridor. "…Illogical rituals and traditions. The promotion of gluttony with overabundance of comestibles and sweets."

"What's wrong with cake?" Molly exclaimed.  
  
She was unaware they'd made it to the loo until Sherlock crowded her against the now-shut bathroom door. Standing on her toes, she tried to meet him for a kiss, but the prat curled away from her. She retaliated by dropping his pants and trousers to his ankles.  
  
"Clearly, you've never seen my brother consume it."

She hissed when his fingers came into contact with her bare skin to tug her bra away. _"Whoa! You're hands are cold!_ "  
  
The detective just smiled, dropping to his knees. She almost crumbled when he brushed her breast with the lightest of kisses, gently fondling the other.  
  
Sherlock groaned, doing something to her nipple with his tongue as he trailed his fingertips down her torso to the lace top of her thigh high. He slowly rolled off one stocking. And then the other. His thumb traced the lace border of her knickers. "Perhaps, I'll bury myself here. Ride it out until the storm has passed."  
  
 _Please, yes_. "Are you sure you could deny yourself the opportunity to dazzle people with your capacity for small talk?"  
  
An rich, unrestrained laugh rang through the small space. But Molly's own breath hitched when she saw Sherlock's smile twist into something darker, his fingers hooked into her knickers, pulling them slowly down.  
  
His breath was hot on her mound, but he didn't touch her. "I suppose I could practice my tolerance for the inevitable _physical violations_."  
  
"Violations?!"

Sherlock didn't clarify straight away, pulling the rest of his clothes off his ankles before raising himself to his full height. Somewhere along the way he had toed off his shoes and socks.

"Indeed. Incessant. Tawdry. Violations." He fixed her with a smouldering gaze as his fingers danced along the inside of her thigh, denying his caress where she most wanted it.  
  
" _Oh!_ I get it." Molly purred, pulling him closer. " _Violations_."

"Do you now?" Sherlock tilted his head, certain that she didn't. His smarmy grin dropped in astonishment when Molly swatted his bare arse, the harmless slap echoing loudly.  
  
Now Molly laughed while the befuddled man blinked repeatedly as if trying to reboot his hard drive, opening his mouth to say something, but had nothing. It wasn't every day that one managed to take the piss out of the great Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"What? Didn't you mean _birthday spankings?_ " Molly asked, trying – and failing – to sound innocent.  
  
"Actually," Sherlock growled when he was finally recovered, "I was referring to the excessive hugs and handshakes that come with these sorts of _occasions_."  
  
"We can practice that too." Molly released the last buttons of his shirt. "Along with your gracious responses to all the lovely presents you're bound to receive tomorrow. What? You love receiving presents."  
  
"Pilfering them is more fun," Sherlock grumbled.

"And less honest." Molly pushed the garment off of his shoulders, leaving him as naked as her.  
  
"Trickery is far more honest. No expectation of reciprocity at a later date." His thumb gently traced her lip.

"Not everything comes attached to strings. Sometimes people just like being nice." Molly lifted her chin in expectation of a long-awaited kiss.  
  
Instead, Sherlock grasped her hand and dragged her towards the tub. The pathologist worked the hair tie off her wrist while he turned the taps. Cool water gushed from the showerhead, quickly turning hot.  
  
Molly twisted her long hair into a rope, intent on piling it atop her head, but Sherlock had other plans, grasping her waist. "Sherlock, wait!" She protested, trying to bat his hands away. "I need to—Ah!"  
  
Molly's squeal was cut off by Sherlock's lips meeting hers in a wild, passionate kiss as he hauled her under the shower. Hot water blasted over her head, drenching her hair, and engulfing her in heat. Sherlock clutched her body tightly to his, moaning into her mouth as he ravished her lips. Molly threw her arms around his neck, overwhelmed in sensation.  
  
Sherlock adjusted the showerhead over their heads without breaking the kiss, snogging her deeply for several minutes, savouring their privacy as the water beat down on them, drowning out the rest of the world.  
  
"You're a brat," Molly murmured affectionately when she broke away for air.  
  
"That I am." He wore that ridiculous, self-satisfied smirk. Her pathetic attempt at a frown only validated his antics, she knew. He'd also forgotten to take his watch off.

Normally, Molly was indifferent to sexual activity in the bath, finding it awkward and uncomfortable and vastly overrated. But finally having Sherlock to herself again, his beautiful, hard body pressed against hers, was heavenly. She pushed his long, wet locks out of his eyes. Without springy curls to soften the sharp lines of his face, his features appeared more angular, more alien.

And more menacing, not that she had thought it possible.  
  
Greedy hands skated over her back and bum a last time, before getting to work, gathering her hair together and running his fingers through to ensure that it was completely soaked. Molly allowed him to shift her out of the spray and then realised his intent to wash her hair for her. Fussy about her hair, she couldn't help but feel a tad apprehensive as Sherlock procured a bottle of shampoo.  
  
Ridiculously expensive designer shampoo, of course. Sulphate-free and designed for curly hair. Christ, it probably cost £50- £70 a bottle.  
  
She nearly laughed when Sherlock squirted a puddle into his palm, paused, and wisely considered how much more hair she had than him, before doubling it. Without further ado, he worked the shampoo into a good lather and pressed his body against hers to lightly apply it to her crown and down her head.  
  
Molly really hadn't wanted to deal with the fuss of getting her hair wet, but saw the error of her ways when Sherlock worked the shampoo into her roots of her hair, gently using the pads of his fingers in steady, rhythmic circles.  
  
It was the clean, masculine scent that she occasionally got a whiff of when Sherlock's hair got damp. Not remotely fruity or floral. Tea Tree Oil, perhaps? It turned her on all the more to know that she was going to spend the next day wearing his scent.  
  
"Good?" he inquired.

_"Oh, yes."_   This changed her entire stance on shower sex.  
  
If she'd had her eyes open, Molly would have seen Sherlock preen when she moaned, pleased that instead of trying to pile her hair on her head to cleanse it, he loosely worked the shampoo down the ends. Knotting it at the top of her head just would have resulted in a tangled mess.  
  
"You've done this before," Molly sighed.  
  
"No." His voice was deep, breathless. Not just because it was steamy.  
  
"You...You have a thing for long hair." He'd been obsessed with it, touching it, pulling it off her face during their first night together.  
  
Sherlock hummed noncommittally, returning to her head to sensually massage her scalp.  
  
"I'm right, aren't I?" Molly looked up at him, looking for a confirmation. Perhaps he thought it too cliché?  
  
"Close your eyes." He ordered, pushing her under the spray again.  
  
Molly complied, tilting her head back so the stream hit her crown first. She pulled him into a kiss as the water saturated her hair, caressing his neck and shoulders.  
  
"For God's sake, Molly. I have to rinse it," Sherlock fussed.

"Go on then." She peppered the lovely column of his throat with kisses, noting how his adam's apple bobbed when she wiggled her lower half against him.  
  
Despite her distracting ministrations, Sherlock did a thorough job rinsing the shampoo and gently wringing her hair out before applying crème rinse.

In Molly's experience, most men didn't use conditioners, but she wasn't surprised that Sherlock did. God, he probably couldn't get a comb through his curls otherwise.  
  
"Five minutes," he announced.

"My turn." Molly grinned, reaching for the shampoo. "C'mere."  
  
Predictably, Sherlock proved to be less than cooperative, unable to stand still for even a minute. She'd only just begin running it through his hair when he pinned her against the wall, assaulting her neck and chest with a soapy flannel. The temperature differential of the cool tiles at her back and his hard, hot hands kneading her breasts was maddening.

That and his cock pushed against her belly, fully erect.

"You're cheating, Sherlock."  
  
"You started it." His head was bent, perving her chest. Well, at least she didn't have to reach so high.

"Me?!" She gently tugged a bit of his hair, trying to direct his head back and received a nip on her collarbone for her trouble. "Ah!"

"You did." A deep vocalization came from his throat when Molly lightly scraped his scalp with her nails. "You were kind to me when I least deserved it."  
  
Sherlock was doing his damnedest to distract her, but she persevered, completely working the shampoo in. She cupped his face in her hands. "Today?"

"No, six years ago." Though his tone was jovial, it harboured a note of regret.

"Luckily what you lack in social niceties, you make up for with your brilliance," Molly told him softly, meaning it. Sherlock arched a brow when she smeared soap over his neck and chest with her bare hands. "Your dashing good looks don't hurt either."  
  
He released another soft chuckle, pressing his lips to hers again.  
  
"C'mon." She pushed against his chest. "Need to finish this before the hot water runs out."

"We've approximately twelve minutes left," Sherlock assured her, pulling her off the wall to lean against him so he could reach around to soap her back.  
  
Molly brought her arms under Sherlock's, squeezing him with her slick hands. He spent far too much time soaping and kneading her bottom, shifting the mood from playful to intensely erotic. His fingers tightened around her waist when she cried out, his fingers having made their way to her core, stroking her intimately for the first time since they arrived at the flat. Sherlock's excitement picked up too, his cock bounced against her belly, seeking friction as she panted into the hollow of his throat. Molly reached between them, grasping his erection for only a second before he broke away.  
  
Shampoo and soap swirled around the bottom of the bathtub, making it slippery. Wisely, Sherlock pressed Molly's palm to a fixture before kneeling to wash her legs.  
  
When Sherlock finished with the flannel, he handed it to her. Instead of standing to let her take her turn scrubbing him, he rinsed his hand in the spray and returned it to her sex.

His touch was feather light and experimental, as if examining a wound. They had been quite rough earlier, was he worried that she'd been hurt? Molly shuddered in pleasure, wondering if her heart would explode as Sherlock tenderly explored and teased her for several moments, swirling his thumb over her clit and gently penetrating her with those long, elegant fingers of his.  
  
Somehow Molly knew what he was going to do the second Sherlock stood, pinning her with those pale, hungry eyes. Still, her jaw dropped, transfixed as he brought his fingers to his lips, shiny with her wetness. He didn't blink, sucking her essence off of his fingertips.  
  
What she hadn't counted on was Sherlock's reaction when she responded in kind, gripping his wrist, bringing him to her own lips.

Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth, his lids screwed shut briefly before rising to half-mast when she drew his middle finger into her mouth, sucking and teasing his digit with her tongue. His cock bobbed, slanting towards her, urgent and inviting.

Molly couldn’t help but appreciate that contradiction as there was _nothing_ inviting or welcoming about Sherlock. The man was most calculating and vicious; frigid and utterly untouchable.

Yet his draw was irresistible. Irrefutable. Like a satellite trapped in orbit, one could never be lulled into a false sense of security, always awaiting the uncontrolled re-entry once inevitably tossed or forced out.

Still, it was a lovely way to burn. And she wasn’t going to go quietly.

Wordlessly, Molly took the soapy flannel and shifted behind him. Pressing it firmly against his skin, she moved in slow, tiny circles from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, continuing on to his arse. She continued her naughty massage by reaching around to rub the top of his thighs with her palms, building his anticipation.  
  
He whirled around when she pushed him under the shower spray, treating her to a frustrated glower. Molly kept her expression coy while rinsing his hair and washing the soap from his skin as he did the same for her. The suds created a slick, frictionless slide as they writhed against each other, crushing their lips together in wet, intense kisses.  
  
"All done," Sherlock declared huskily, clearly eager to dry off and go to bed. But that wasn't going to happen.  
  
"Not quite. I want to finish our re-do. And this time, you better not run off."  
  
His nostrils flared, remembering her bold response to his bad behaviour two nights ago. "You were most infuriating."  
  
"And you were trying to frighten me."  
  
"So you picked a fight with me?" Sherlock asked, humour and awe apparent.  
  
"You started it. I finished it," Molly corrected. "But it wasn't my first choice." She manoeuvred him into position so the water broke over his back, his tall frame shielding her.

"No?"

She sank to her knees at the bottom of the tub. "Shall I show you?"  
  
His eyes blew wide with lust, taking on a more green hue as she walked her fingers up his calf, his knee, and up, up towards the dark thatch of curls at his groin. She moved slowly, kissing and nuzzling his thighs, giving him time to move away if this was perhaps unwise.  
  
Later, Molly would be taken aback by her recklessness. As a doctor, of course Molly knew better, that they should have talked about this first. Sherlock had no compunction about flaying her alive with words or committing the most heinous emotional manipulations, but risk physically endangering her? Never.  
  
Sherlock didn't make her stop.

Molly’s smile was a slow, wicked thing as she finally took him in hand, her fingers loosely circling his erection, lazily sliding up and down his length, swollen and thick. Sherlock’s foreskin was retracted, his glans a deep, shiny purple. Silk over steel.

The tendons in Sherlock's throat quivered, strong and reticent, so much as the strings of his violin. Molly could tell he was trying to keep it together, analysing and comparing his technique to her own, with her delicate, un-callused fingers. Couldn't have that.

Tightening her fist, Molly pumped him with more skill, twisting her hand on the upstroke, like a corkscrew.

" _Oh_! Oh God! Do that again," Sherlock breathed, shifting to plant his feet more securely. His cock throbbed, jumping in her hand when she complied, expertly stroked his hard flesh, sweeping her thumb over the tip.

After thoroughly working him with her hand, Molly leaned in further, taking in Sherlock's responses when she teased his prick with her tongue, alternating gentle and firm licks. The pulsing water drowned out his ragged breathing, but wasn't enough to muffle his strangled curse when she took the head in her mouth, gently sucking.  
  
Not wanting to neglect any part of him, Molly twisted her free hand in the soap before bringing it to Sherlock's bollocks. They pulled tight to his body when she fondled them while working his shaft with her lips, the suds adding an easy, erotic glide.  
  
"Ah, Christ." Sherlock’s lashes fluttered shut as he unravelled under her steady attention. Molly moved faster, relaxing her jaw to take him as deep as he would go. He was already close, skirting on the edge, but Molly wasn't ready for it to be over. She slowed down.  
  
A soft thud echoed through the shower when Sherlock sagged against the tile, unsatisfied and uncomprehending. And Molly wanted to hear more, so much more.  
  
She pulled off with a playful plop. "The water's gone cold."

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, dazed and vulnerable. Molly didn't hold back her cheeky grin, deciding to help him out. "Turn it off, Sherlock."  
  
The detective peeled his hand off the fixture to fumble with the taps, having to look to find them. His stomach tightened when Molly settled deeper between his legs.  
  
Sherlock made a sharp, strangled noise when Molly took him into her mouth again, taking him all the way in one continuous movement. Playing to his inner voyeur, she paused to give him a good look at her lips wrapped around the root of his cock.  
  
"Oh hell. _Fuck_!"

Sherlock’s excessive and exclusive use of swear words during sex was insanely hot. She braced her hands on his thighs, digging her nails into his skin, and bobbed up and down his dick in an titillating, steady tempo.  
  
Oh, this was so much better. Without the roar of the shower, she could hear every one of Sherlock's shaky breaths. Every curse and groan ripped from his throat. And he could hear all the obscene sounds she made, sucking him off with enthusiasm.

But her favourite part was how his fingers reached to gently stroke her temple, her cheek. Then he’d recoil, flailing his hand helplessly, clenching and unclenching, desperately seeking contact, but unwilling to offend.

“Touch me, Sherlock.” Molly reached for him, settling his hand on the crown of her head. He stroked her tentatively at first but Molly urged him, in a low whine. “I want you to.”

Sherlock expelled a low, rough exhalation as he gave into his yearning, his left hand joining his right, burying his fingers in her sopping tresses. Trepidation didn't cross her mind. Sherlock knew his strength. His powerful, enormous hands stayed gentle, lightly cradling her skull, content to let her set the pace.  
  
Until Molly slowed once again, desiring to torment Sherlock just a bit longer.

Reflexively, Sherlock’s fingers tightened in Molly’s hair, sending her own arousal to a fevered pitch. Her scalp tingled and she pushed forward, wanting just a bit more, moaning loudly on his cock. The detective read her correctly, twisting his grip just so. The other hand relinquished its hold, connecting with the wall in a fist. Delirious with desire, Molly rewarded him, hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard.

And then Sherlock's composure shattered. His shoulders curled over her in wanton agony. Every muscle in his lanky form tensed and trembled. Deep, imploring cries and snarls fell from those pouty lips of his.

"Oh, Christ! Molly—! _Oh!"_

The darkest, greediest part of her was appeased, exhilarated by the brokenness of the cry when Sherlock called out _her_ name.  
  
Confident that Sherlock was utterly wrecked and completely incapable of any coherent thought, Molly pressed closer, driving onto him as fast as she could, giving Sherlock the final push he needed.  
  
"Molly." Sherlock gasped. A warning.  
  
Not one she needed. The air had long cooled, but Molly was fevered, so hot. And Sherlock was right there with her, burning up, denigrating in the atmosphere as he tumbled.  
  
"Molly. _Molly!"_

Molly didn’t break away, instead clung to his writhing form, wishing she could see Sherlock's face contort in mindless pleasure as he spasmed over and over, spilling himself down her throat. Her hands held his hips, preventing him from thrusting wildly so she could swallow him down. His rough, guttural groans lessened to soft sighs. Molly eased off gradually, keeping her lips gentle as he softened.  
  
Sherlock took huge gulps of air, blinking as if trying to clear his vision while Molly stroked his hip, soothing him as he came down. To her surprise, he didn't move to exit the tub when she shifted away. Instead he merely slid his back down the wall, crumpling into the tub with her.

From somewhere in the kitchen, his phone chimed. It went unheeded.  
  
Once Sherlock regained some of his senses, he reached for her, pulling Molly into a tight embrace. He gave her the sweetest kiss before letting her slump against his chest. They lay there several moments, in an ungraceful heap, steam rolling off their skin  
  
Sherlock was so beautiful like this, relaxed and blissed out. Joy and satisfaction coursed through her.

But Sherlock still didn’t get it. His hand winded around Molly, reaching to her sex, but she caught him.

"Nuh-uh, Sherlock."  
  
"Hmmm?"

"I told you. Sometimes people just like to be nice."  
  
Comprehension dawned and Sherlock glanced at his watch. Four minutes after midnight.  
  
His laugh was an explosive burst of air as Sherlock flung his arm over his face, knowing he'd been had. "You’re a cruel woman, Molly Hooper."

"Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind." Molly beamed, kissing his hand. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes."

As if on cue, his phone chimed again.

"Do you have to get that?" Molly teased.

Sherlock replied with that bored, impertinent noise of his.

The bath was far too small for the both of them and they were awkwardly tangled together, but Sherlock unfurled his long limbs, unwilling to put forth the effort to dry off or get dressed. His calf dangled comically over the edge.

Sherlock squeezed a lock of her hair in his fist, watching contemplatively as the water dripped down her back. He picked up another tendril and did it again. Then a third time.

"Are you calculating the absorbency of my hair?"

"Adsorbency." Sherlock corrected, his brain fog lifting. "The water doesn't get absorbed, rather it clings to the tiny scales on each strand of hair. You've got quite a bit of surface area."

"Well, no plots to hack if off so you can mop up oil spills in your kitchen, please."  
  
"God, no. In addition to it being aesthetically pleasing, it serves decidedly more significant functions attached to your scalp," Sherlock husked, giving it a seductive, _reminiscent_ tug before letting it flop over her breast.

"Aesthetically pleasing?" Was that Sherlock-ese for 'pretty'? His confirmation blew her away.

"Yes, saturated like this, it invokes the impression of a mermaid."  
  
Okay, Sherlock’s brain wasn't fully online yet, but Molly beamed, taken in by his fanciful complement. The first genuine compliment she'd received from him. He really was adorable when he wanted to be.

Molly was further beguiled when his forefinger touched a faint scar on her arm curiously. "You stitched this up yourself. Either you didn't have access to immediate medical care or you didn't want someone to know."

"I fell off a horse. I didn’t want my father to find out." Molly bit her lip, remembering how silly she had been, taking such a lively horse despite her lack of experience at twenty-seven.

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "No, that’s not right."

"Onto a fence," Molly reluctantly admitted.

“I hate horses. Overbred, dangerous creatures,” Sherlock muttered before squinting at her, still in deduction mode. "You were trying to impress someone. A boyfriend."  
  
"Not a boyfriend. But a man I met there, yes." Despite her best efforts, Molly blushed.

Mercifully, he left it at that, moving on to the gouge that signified Toby’s first trip to the veterinarian.

After sex, most men would tell a woman how much he enjoyed it or how beautiful they are. Naturally, Sherlock’s way of connecting with a lover would be to map out every scar, tell every imperfection’s story.

Before Molly knew it, Sherlock was reaching toward another, much more painful scar on the outside of her thigh.

It was thin, indistinct mark that had never caused Molly any unease in the five years she’d had it. Even to the trained eye, most would readily accept the dismissive fib that she always told boyfriends that had asked. But Sherlock would know. He always knew.

Instinctively, Molly blocked him, shifting so it was out of his line of sight.

But it was too late.

Sherlock, for his part, appeared suddenly mortified. No longer flushed and relaxed, the blood had drained from his face, leaving him with a sickly pallor. For once, he didn’t say a thing.

It hadn't been of his doing and Molly didn’t understand his embarrassment. Sherlock wasn’t squeamish about these things or the least bit apologetic about being an intrusive arse. Without a demand for an apology, her discomfort had never caused him embarrassment before.

But of course, Sherlock just couldn't _stay_ quiet, couldn't let it go. Eventually, he had to put it out there. He wouldn’t meet her eyes when he murmured the two words she least expected to hear, as a question of all things.

"Collateral damage?"

The phrase she'd used during their quarrel two nights ago. Molly felt as if she’d been slapped.

Molly forced herself past the unexpected surge of emotion, unwilling let herself feel ashamed. She waited for him to meet her eyes. Her voice was surprisingly level when she shrugged it off, proud of herself for being so nonchalant. "It's nothing you didn't already know about."

It was okay really. He was supposed to acknowledge it with an awkward nod or not at all. Supposed to let it be.

_Instead he lied._ Looked her dead in the eye and lied. "No. I must have missed it or deleted it."

Such an absurd lie.

Molly couldn’t repress her wounded sigh. Sherlock knew right away he'd fucked up, trying to reach for her as she scrambled out of the tub. Cursing herself for leaving most of her clothes in the living areas, she grabbed his dressing gown off the hook of the door lest anyone show up unannounced, scooping up her undergarments on the way out.  
  
Fortunately, Sherlock took his time emerging from his bedroom in pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. Grateful for the privacy, Molly had redressed hastily, sans her stockings. She'd wrung out her hair in the kitchen sink to the best of her ability and knotted it atop her head. Sherlock watched her pull a hat out of the pocket of her coat, pulling it over her damp hair. It would be good enough to get home.

Her own phone chimed with a text message, but she ignored it.

She wasn’t going to be mad at him. Sherlock had always been crap at navigating emotional minefields, especially his own. It was just his way.

Still, Molly felt much more confident now that they were dressed, deciding after some deliberation to address the one thing that had changed between them, telling him softly, "You've never cared enough to lie in an attempt to spare my feelings. But now isn't the time to start up with that, alright?"

Sherlock looked completely bewildered. To his credit, he took a moment to think about it before agreeing, warily as it was. "Alright."

Molly offered him a heartfelt smile, letting him know they were fine. Their evening had been wonderful and she really didn't want to end it on a sour note. God knew if she’d see him again. Thankfully, Sherlock picked up on that too and eased a bit.

Now for the awkward goodbye...

"I've got to go." Molly dug out her phone, intent on calling a cab, unconsciously tapping the text message first. "I've got work tomorrow." _My last day._

The waiting text sent Molly's hand to her mouth, briefly hiding the brightest smile. Forgetting all the weirdness of ten minutes ago, she turned and hugged Sherlock, her spirits soaring. “You really ought to check your messages!”

"What is it?" Sherlock was dying of curiosity by the time she released him.

"John and Mary are at Bart's. Another birthday present appears to be on the way."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that its taken so long to update this. I had a rather eventful summer but am home now and back to writing. Many thanks to all the reviews and PMs checking in on me. I hope it was worth the wait and plan on updating more regularly until I finish this thing. Thanks to everyone willing to stick with it!


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